


illl 



..■N-^- 



C,^ ^ 



,V ./ 









v^^ ''^^. \ 



.S. ^ ^ .H. 



-f' 



y -".f.. 



•'*, ' .^^ 



.-^" 



S 




.5 'U. 






%/ 







.,^' : . ^s^' . A^' 






c^. 



H ' 'f't 









^- 'ci-^ 



■■ ■/- 



) N ', 


\"''\~-^" 




.\^' ^^ 




v\' •/-. 


c, X' 









-^^ V 



^s' 









■*-£:*'^', -^'-1 









^ ■ \' 



V^' 



-r--. 



,A' 



^^^te^' 



^^>::^.^ 



.s^'% 



.-N'^' X " 






'0^ .^ 



■^ a\ 



/^.5^^^^ 









Nj> -^C^ 






V^^^"' v~^ '> 









v\^ 






^ ^v,/^^^'. '-^ '• - ^ 



o 



.^^ ''^> 






.0- 









cf- ,\X 



>" '^^, ' 



^•^ 

.^-\ 








•^^ ,• *" 




x^^^. 








r^ . 


X -^ " ' -- 






, -) 






■^ ^ , - :% % ^' 




,X'' 


-^ '''' / . s " .X 



-X'^^ 



« ^ ■ " « 



C' ^-. .-N^ ^^^'^ 



. -'c. 



\' <- 



^... ,/ .*.^ 



C^- 



.-V 



0> Ci 









THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



ROBERT BUR]Sr^ 



WITH ALL THE CORRESPONDENCE 



AND NOTES 



ALLAI^ OU]^I^I]:^GHAM. 



NEW YORK 

AMERICAN PUBLISHERS CORPORATION 

310-318 Sixth Avenue 









P.O. D«pt. 

Ittraaoe 



MEMOIR OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Robert Burns was born on the 25th day of January, 1759, in a small 
house about two miles from the town of Ayr, and within a few hundred yarua 
of Alloway Church, which his poem of Tamo' Shanter has rendered immortul. 
The name, which the poet and his brother modernized into Burns, wu.s 
originally Burnes, or Burness. Their father, William Burnes, was the son oi: 
a farmer in Kincardineshire, and had received the education common in Scot-. 
land to persons in his condition of life ; he could read and write, and had somy 
knowledge of arithmetic. His family having fallen into reduced circumstances, 
he was compelled to leave his home in his nineteenth year, and turned his steps 
toward the south in quest of a livelihood. He undertook to act us a gardener, 
and shaped his course to Edinburgh, where he wrought hard when he could 
obtain employment, passing through a variety of difficulties. From Edin- 
burgh William Burnes passed westward into the county of Ayr, where he 
engaged himself as a gardener to the laird of Fairly, with whom he lived two 
years; then changed his service for that of Crawford of Doonside. At length, 
being desirous of settling in life, he took a perpetual lease of seven acres of 
land from Dr. Campbell, physicii^n in Ayr, with the view of commencing 
nurseryman and public gar&ener, and, having built a house upon it with hio 
own hands, married in December, 1757^ Agnes Brown. The first fruit of this 
marriage was Robert, the subject of^^iese memoirs. Before William Burners 
had made much progress in preparing his nursery, he was withdrawn from 
that undertaking by Mr. Ferguson, who purchased the estate of Doonholm, in 
the immediate neighbourhood, and engaged him as his gardener and overseer, 
and this was his situation when our poet was born. When in the service of 
Mr. Ferguson, he lived in his own house, his wife managmg her family, and 
her little dairy, which consisted of two, sometimes of three milch cows ; and 
this state of unambitious content continued till the year 1766. His son Robert 
was sent by him, in his sixth year, to a school in Alloway Miln, about a milo 
distant, taught by a person of the name of Campbell ; but this teacher being i:i 
» few months appointed master of the workhouse at Ayr, William Burnes, i.> 
conjunction with some other heads of families, engaged John Murdoch in his 
stead. The education of our poet, and of his brother Gilbert, was in common : 
and whilst under Mr. Murdoch, they learned to read English tolerably well, 
find to write a little. He also taught them the elements of English grammar, 
in which Robert made some proficiency — a circumstance which had consider- 
able weight in the unfolding of his genius and character ; as he soon became 
remarkable for the fluency and correctness of his expression, and read the few 
books that came in his way with much pleasure and improvement. 

It appears that William Burnes approved himself greatly in the service of 
Mr Ferguson, by his intelligence, industry, and integrity. In consequence of 
this, with a view of promoting his interest, Mr. Ferguson lea;:ed to him the 
farm of Mount Oliphant, in the parish of Ayr ; consisting of upward.-, of seventy 
acres (about ninety, English Imperial measure), the rent of whicii was to be 
tortjr pounds wmuaUy f</r the first six yesus, aad afterwards forty-five pounds. 



« MEMOIR OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Mr. Ferguson also lent him a hundred pounds to assist in stocking the farm, t« 
which he removed at Whitsuntide, 1766. But this, in place of being of advan 
tage to William Burnes, as it was intended by his former master, was the 
commencement of much anxiety and distress to the whole family, which is 
forcibly described by his son, Gilbert, in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop: 

" Mount Oliphant, the farm my father possessed in the parish of Ayr, is 
almost the very poorest soil I know of in a state of cultivation. A stronger 
proof of this 1 cannot give, tlian that, notwithstanding the extraordinary rise 
in the value of lands in Scotland, it was, after a considerable sum laid out ii: 
Improving it by the proprietor, let a few ye-^.rs ago five pounds per annum lowci 
than the rent paid for it by my father thirty years ago. My father, in consc 
quence of this, soon came into difficulties, which were increased by the loss (>[ 
several of his cattle by accidents and disease. To the bulfetings of misfortune, 
we could only oppose hard labour and the most rigid economy. We lived very 
sparingly. For several years butcher's meat was a stranger in the house, wliik 
all the members of the family exerted themselves to the utmost of their 
strength, and rather beyond it, in the labours of the farm. My brother, at the 
age of thirteen, assisted in thrashing the crop of corn, and at fifteen was the 
principal labourer on the farm, for we had no hired servant, male or female. 
The anguish of mind we felt at our tender years, under these straits and dif- 
ficulties, was very great. To think of our father growing old (for he was now 
above fifty) broken down with the long-continued fatigues of his life, with a 
wife and five other children, and in a declining state of circumstances, these 
reflections produced in my brother's mind and mine sensations of the deepest 
distress. 1 doubt not but the hard labour and sorrow of this period of his life, 
was in a great measure the cause of that depression of spirits with which 
Robert was so often afflicted through his whole life afterwards. At this time 
he was almost constantly afflicted in the evenings with a dull headache, which, 
at a future period of his life, was exchanged for a palpitation of the heart, and 
a threatening of fainting and suffocation in his bed, in the night-time, 

" By a stipulation in my father's lease, he had a right to throw it up, if he 
thought proper, at the end of every sixth year. He attempted to fix himself in 
a better farm at the end of the first six years, but failing in tliat attempt, he 
continued where he was for six years more. He then took the farm of Loch- 
lea, of 130 acres, at the rent of twenty shillings an acre, in the parish of Tar- 
bolton, of Mr, , then a merchant in Ayr, and now (1797) a mer- 
chant at Liverpool. He removed to this farm at Whitsuntide, 1777, and pos- 
sessed it only seven years. No writing had ever been made out of the condi- 
tions of the lease ; a misunderstanding took place respecting them ; the sub- 
jects in dispute were submitted to arbitration, and the decision involved my 
father's affairs in ruin. He lived to know of this decision, but not to see any 
execution in consequence of it. He died on the 13th of February, 1784." 

Of this frugal, industrious, and good man, the following beautiful character 
has been given by Mr. Murdoch:—" He was a tender and affectionate father; 
he took pleasure in leading his children in the path of virtue; not in driving 
, them as some parents do, to the performance of duties to which they them- 
selves are averse. He took care to find fault but very seldom; and therefore, 
when he did rebuke, he was listened to with a kind of reverential awe. A 
look of disapprobation was felt; a reproof was severely so; and a stripe with 
the taws, even on the skirt of the coat, gave heartfelt pain, produced a loud 
lamentation, and brought forth a flood of tears. 

"He had the art of gaining the esteem and good-will of those that were la- 
bourers under him. I think I never saw him angry but twice: the one time it 
was with the foreman of the band, for not reaping the field as he was desired- 
and the other time it was with an old man, for using smutty inuendoes and 
^(OVi^le ent67i4re9* Were every foul-mouthed qU m^ to receive a seasoa^bk 



MEMOIR OF ROBERT BURNS. 



clieck in tliis way, it would be to the advantage of the rising generation. A i 
he was at no time overbearing to inferiors, lio vvas equally incapable of tl)i t 
passive, pitiful, paltry spirit, that induces some people to keep booing and boo- 
ing in the presence of a great man. He always treated superiors w^ith a becom- 
ing respect; but he never gave the smallest encouragement to aristocraticalarrot 
gance. But I must not pretend to give you a description of all the manly quali- 
ties, the rational and Christian virtues, of the venerable William Burnes. Timti 
would fail me. I shall only add, that he carefully practised every knowq 
duty, and avoided everything that was criminal ; or, in the apostle's words, 
* Herein did he exercise himself, in living a life void of offence towards God 
and towards men.' Oh for a world of men of such dispositions ! We should 
then have no wars. I have often wished, for the good of mankind, that it 
were as customary to honour and perpetuate the memory of those who excel in 
moral rectitude, as it is to extol what are called heroic actions: then would tlio 
mausoleum of the friend of my youth overtop and surpass most of the monu- 
ments 1 see in Westminster Abbey !" 

Under the humble roof of his parents, it appears indeed that our poet had 
great advantages; but liis opportunities of information at school were more 
limited as to time than they usually are among his countrymen, in his condi- 
tion of life; and the acquisitions which he made, and the poetical talent which 
lie exerted, under the pressure of early and incessant toil, and of inferior, and 
perhaps scanty nutriment, testify at once the extraordinary force and activity 
of his mind. In his frame of body he rose nearly five feet ten inches, and as- 
sumed the proportions that indicate agility as well as strength. In the various 
labo'irs of thefarm he excelled all his competitors. Gilbert Burns declares th&t 
in mowing, the exercise that tries all the muscles most severely, Robert was 
the only man that, at the end of a summer's day, lie was ever obliged to ac- 
knowledge as his master. But though our poet gave the powers of his body 
to the labours of the farm, he refused to bestow on them his thoughts or his 
cares. While the ploughshare under his guidance passed through the sward, 
or the grass fell under the sweep of his scythe, he was humming the songs of 
his country, musing on the deeds of ancient valour, or rapt in the illusions of 
Fancy, as her enchantments rose on his view. Happily the Sunday is yet a 
sabbath, on which man and beast rest from their labours. On this day, there- 
fore. Burns could indulge in a freer intercourse with the charms of nature. It 
was his delight to wander alone on the banks of Ayr, whose stream is now immo:*- 
tal, and to listen to the song of the blackbird at the close of the summer's day. 
But still greater was his pleasure, as he himself informs us, in walking on the 
sheltered side of a wood, in a cloudy winter day, and hearing the storm rave 
.among the trees; and more elevated still his delight to ascend some eminence 
' during the agitations of nature, to stride along its summit while the lightning 
flashed iround him, and, amidst the bowlings of the tempest, to apostro- 
phize the spirit of the storm. Such situations he declares most favorable to 
devotion — "Rapt in enthusiasm, I seem to ascend towards Him who walks on 
the wings of the wind!" If other proofs were wanting of the character of his 
genius, this might determine it. The heart of the poet is peculiarly awake to 
every impression of beauty and sublimity; but, with the higher ordei of poets, 
the beautiful is less attractive than the sublime. 

The gayety of many of Buries' writings, and the lively and even cheerful 
colouring with which he has pourtrayed his own character, may lead some per- 
sons to suppose, that the melancholy which hung over him towards the end of 
his days was not an original part of his constitution. It is not to be doubted, 
indeed, that this melancholy acquired a darker hue in the progress of his life, 
but, independent of his own and of his brother's testimony, evidence is to be 
found among his papers that he was subject very early to those depressions 
of mind, which are perhaps not wholly separable from the sensibility of genius, 
but wliich in him rose to an uncommon decree. 



3IEM0IR OF ROBERT BURlxS. 



The energy of Burns' mind wa3 not exhausted by his daily labours, the 
effusions of his muse, his social pleasures, or his solitary meditations. Somo 
time previous to his engagement as a liax-dresser, having heard that a debax- 
jng-club had been established in Ayr, he resolved to try how such a meeting 
would succeed in the village of Tarbolton. About the end of the year 1780, 
our poet, his brother, and five other young peasants of the neighbourhood, 
formed themselves into a society of this sort, the declared objects of which 
were to relax themselves after toil, to promote sociality and friendship, and to 
improve the mind. The laws and regulations were furnished by Burns. The 
members were to meet after the labours of the day were over, once a week, in 
a small public house in the village; where each should offer his opinion on a 
given question or subject, supporting it by such arguments as he thought 
proper. The debate was to be conducted with order and decorum; and after it 
was finished, the members were to choose a subject for discussion at the ensu- 
ing meeting. The sum expended by each was not to exceed three-pence; and, 
with the humble potation that this could procure, they were to toast 
their mi?fressea and to cultivate friendship with each other. 

After the family of our bard removed from Tarbolton to the neighbourhood 
of Mauchline, he and his brother were requested to assist in forming a similar 
institution there. The regulations of the club at Mauchline were nearly the 
same as those of the club at Tarbolton; but one laudable alteration was made. 
The fines for non-attendance had at Tarbolton been spent in enlarging their 
scanty potations: at Mauchline it was fixed, that the money so arising should 
be set apart for the purchase of books; and the first work procured in 
this manner was the Mirror, the separate numbers of which were at that time 
recently collected and published in volumes. After it followed a number of 
other works, chiefly of the same nature, and among these the Lounger. 

The society of Mauchline still subsists, and was in the list of subscribers to 
the first edition of the works of its celebrated associate. 

Whether, in the humble societies of which he was a member, Bums acquir- 
ed much direct information, may perhaps be questioned. It cannot however be 
doubted, that by collision the faculties of his mind would be excited, that by 
practice his habits of enunciation would be established, and thus we have some 
explanation of that early command of words and of expression which enabled 
him to pour forth his thoughts in language not unworthy of his genius, and 
which, of all his endowments, seemed, oh his appearance in Edinburgh, the 
most extraordinary. For associations of a literary nature, our poet acquired a 
considerable relish; and happy had it been for him, after he emerged from the 
condition of a peasant, if fortune had permitted him to enjoy them in 
the degree of which he was capable, so as to have fortified his principles of 
virtue by the purification of his taste, and given to the energies of his mind 
habits of exertion that might have excluded other associations, in which it 
must be acknowledged they were too often wasted, as well as debased. 

The whole course of the Ayr is fine; but the banks of that river, as it bends 
to the eastward above Mauchline, are singularly beautiful, and they were 
frequented, as may be imagined, by our poet in his solitary walks. Here the 
muse often visited him. 

At this time Burns' prospects in life were so extremely gloomy, that he had 
decided upon going out to Jamaica, and had procured the situation of overfseer 
on an estate belonging to Dr. Douglas ; not, however, without lamenting, that 
want of patronage should force him to think of a project so repugnant to his 
feelings, when his ambition aimed at no higher object than the station of an 
exciseman or ganger in his own country. But the situation in which he was 
now placed cannot be better illustrated than by introducing the letter which he 
wrote to Dr. Moore, giving an account of his life up to this i)eriod. As it waa 
neref intended to see tb« light: elegance, or perfect correctness of compositioiv 



MEMOIR OF ROBERT BURNS. 



will not be expected. These however, will be compensated by the opportunity 
of seeing our poet, as he gives the incidents of his life, unfold the peculiarities 
of his character with all the careless vigor and open sincerity of his mind. 

"Sir: Mauchline, 2d August, 1787. 

" For some months past I have been rambling over the country ; but I am 
flow confined with some lingering complaints, originating, as I take it, in the 
stomach. To divert my spirits a little in this miserable fog of ennui, I have 
taken a whim to give you a history of myself. My name has made some little 
noise in this country ; you have done me the honour to interest jourself very 
warmly in my behalf ; and I think a faithful account of what character of 
a man I am, and how 1 came by that character, may perhaps amuse you in an 
idle moment. I will give you an honest narrative ; though I know it will be 
often at my own expense ; — for I assure you, sir, I have, like Solomon, whose 
character, except in the trifling affair of wisdom, I sometimes think 1 resemble 
—I have, 1 say, like him, ' turned my eyes to behold madness and folly,' and, 
like him, too frequently shaken hand with their intoxicating friendship. * * 

* After you have perused these pages, should you think them trifling and 
impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that the poor author wrote them un- 
der some twitching qualms of conscience, arising from a suspicion that he 
was doing what he ought not to do— a predica.nent he has more than once been 
in before. 

" I have not the most distant pretensions to assume that character, which 
the pye-coated guardians of escutcheons call a Gentleman, When at Edinburgh 
last winter. I got acquainted in the Herald's Ofiice; and looking through that 
granary of honours, I there found almost every name in the kingdom; but for 
me, 

My ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood. 

Gules, Purpure, Argent, &c. , quite disowned me, 

" My father was of the north of Scotland, the son of a farmer, and was 
thrown by early misfortunes on the world at large ; where, after many years' 
wanderings and sojournings, he picked up a pretty large quantity of observa- 
tion and experience, to which I am indebted for most of my pretensions to wis- 
dom. I have met with few who understood men, their manners, and their 
ways, equal to him; but stubborn, ungainly integrity, and headlong, ungovern- 
able irascibility, are disqualifying circumstances; consequently, 1 was born a 
Tery poor man's son. For the first six or seven years of my life, my father 
was gardener to a worthy gentleman of small estate in the neighborhood of 
Ayr. Had he continued in that station, I must have marched off to be one of 
the little underlings about a farm house ; but it was his dearest wish and 
prayer to have it in his power to keep his children under his own eye till they 
could discern between good and evil; so, with the assistance of his generous 
master, my father ventured on a small farm on his estate. At those years I 
was by no means a favourite with anybody. I was a good deal noted for a re^ 
tentive memory, a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthu- 
siastic idiot piety. I say idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though 
it cost the schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar-, 
and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I #as a critic in substantives, 
verbs, and participles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed much to an 
old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for herr ignorance, credulity, 
and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest collection in the Country of tales 
and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, 
spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, deadlights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, 
giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumperj. This cultivated tha 



10 MEMOIR OF nOBETlT BTFTINS. 

•■ — "^ — ■ ■ » 

latent seeds of poetry ; but had so strong an effect on my imagination, that ta 
this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look-out in sus. 
picious places ; and though nobody can be more skeptical than 1 am in 
such matters, yet it often takes an effort of philosophy lo shake off these idlq 
terrors. The earliest composition that I recollect taking pleasure in was Tht 
Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's, beginning ' How are thy servants 
blessed, O Lord !' I particularly remember one half -stanza, which was musio 
to my boyish ear — 

For though on dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave. 

[ met with these pieces in Mason's English Collection, one of my school-books. 
The two first books I ever read in private, and which gave me more pleasure 
fhan any two books I ever read since, were. The Life of Hannibal, and The 
History of Sir William Wallace. Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, 
that I used to strut in raptures up and down after the recruiting drum and bag- 
pipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; while the story of Wallace 
l^oured a Scottish prejudice into my veins, which will boil along there till the 
liood-gates of life shut in eternal rest. 

" Polemical divinity about this time was putting the country half mad: and 
I, ambitious of shining in conversation parties on Sundays, between sermons, 
at funerals, &c., used a few years afterwards to puzzle Calvinism with so much 
heat and indiscretion, that I raised a hue-and-cry of heresy against me, which 
has not ceased to this hour. 

** My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage to me. My social disposition, 
when not checked by some modifications of spirited pride, was, like our cate- 
chistu definition of infinitude, yithout bounds or limits. I formed several con- 
nections with other yonkers who possessed superior advantages, the youngling 
actors, who were busy in the rehearsal of parts in which they were shortly to 
appear on the stage of life, where, alas ! I was destined to drudge behind tho 
scenes. It is not commonly at this green age that our young gentry have a just 
sense of the immense distance between them and their ragged play-fellows. It 
takes a few dashes into the world, to give the young great man that proper, de- 
cent, unnoticing disregard for the poor, insignificant, stupid devils, the me 
chanics and peasantry around him, who were perhaps born in the same village. 
My young superiors never insulted the clouterly npiiesirsince of my plough-boy 
carcase, the two extremes of which were often exposed to all the inclemencies 
of all the seasons. They would give me stray volumes of books • among them, 
even then, I could pick up some observations ; and one, whose heart 1 am sure 
'-Bot-cven the Munny Begum scenes have tainted, helped me to a little French. 
Parting with these my young friends and benefactors, as they occasionally 
Went off for the East or West Indies, was often to me a sore affliction ; but I 
"Was soon called to more serious evils. My father's generous master died ; the 
farm proved a ruinous bargain ; and, to clench the misfortune, we fell into 
the hands of a factor, who sat for the picture I have drawn of one in my T'ale 
of Twa Dogs. My father was advanced in life when he married ; I wa« the 
eldest of seven children ; and he, worn out by early hardships, was unfit for 
labour. My father's spirit was soon irritated, but not easily broken. There was 
SI freedom in his lease in two years more ; and, to weather these two years, we 
retrenched our expenses. « We lived very poorly : I was a dexterous plough- 
man for my age ; and the next eldest to me was a brother (Gilbert), who could 
drive the plough very well and help me to thrash the corn. A novel-writef 
might perhaps have viewed these scones with some satisfaction ; but so did not 

I ; my indignation yet boils at the recollection of the s 1 factor's insolent 

threatening letters, which used to set us all in tears. 

♦* This kind of life— the cheerless ^loom of a hermit, with the unceasing moil 



MEMOIR OF HOBEilT BTJIiNS. 1^ 

of a galley-slave, brought me to my sixteentli year : a little before wliich 
period I first committed the sin of rhyme. You know our country custom of 
coupling a man and woman together as partners in the labours of the harvest. 
In my fifteenth autumn, my partner was a bewitching creature a year younger, 
than myself. My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing her 
justice in that language, but you know the Scottish idiom — she M^as a 
bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she, altogether unwittingly to herself, in- 
itiated me into that delicious passion, which, in spite of acid disappointment, 
gin-horse prudence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human 
joys, our dearest blessing here below ! How she caught the contagion, I cannot 
tell : you medical people talk much of infection from breathing the same air, 
the touch, &c. ; but I never expressly said I loved her. Indeed, I did not know 
myself why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, when returning in the 
evening from^ our labours ; why the tones of her voice made my heart-strings 
thrill like an'^olian harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious 
rattan when I looked and fingered over her little hand to pick out the cruel 
nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qualities, she sung 
sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel to which I attempted giving an embodied 
vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as to imagine that I could make 
verses like printed ones, composed by men who had Greek and Latin ; but my 
girl sung a song, which was said to be composed by a small country laird's son, 
on one of his father's maids, with whom he was in love ! and I saw no reason 
why I might not rhyme as well as he : for, excepting that he could smear 
sheep, and cast peats, his father living in the moorlands, he had no moro 
school -era ft than myself. 

" Thus witk me Ijegan love and poetry ; which at times have been my only, 
and till within the last twelve months, have been my highest enjoyment. My 
father struggled on til] he reached the freedom in his lease, when he entered on 
a larger farm, about ten miles farther in the country. The nature of the bar- 
gain he made was such as to throw a little ready money into his hands at the 
commencement of his lease ; otherwise the affair would have been impracti- 
cable. For four years we lived comfortably here ; but a difference commencing 
between him and his landlord as to terms, after three years' tossing and whirl- 
ing in the vortex of litigation, my father was just saved from the horrors of a 
jail by a consumption, which, after two years' promises, kindly stepped in, and 
carried him away, to * where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the 
weary are at rest. ' 

" It is during the time that we lived on this farm that my little story is most 
eventful. I was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps the most ungainly, 
awkward boy in the parish — no solitaire was less acquainted with the ways of 
the world. What I knew of ancient story was gathered from Salmon's and 
Guthrie's geographical grammars ; and the ideas I had formed of modern man- 
ners, of literature and criticism, I got from the Spectator. These, wdth Pope's 
Works, some plays of Shakespeare, Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, The Pan- 
theon, Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding, Stackhouse's History of the 
Bible, Justice's British Gardener's Directory, Bayle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's 
Works, Taylofs Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, A Select Collection of Eng- 
lish Songs, and Hervey's Meditations, had formed the whole of my reading. 
The collection of songs was my vade mecum. I pored over them driving iny 
cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse by verse ; carefully noting the 
true, tender, or sublime, from affectation and fustian. I am convinced I owe 
to this practice much of my critic craft, such as it is. 

" In my seventeenth year, to give my manners a brush, I went to a country 
dancing-school. — My father had an unaccountable antipathy against these meet- 
ings ; and my going was, what to this moment I repent, in o})position to his 
wishes. My father, as I said before, was subject to strong passions ; from 



12 MEMOIR OF ROBEHT BtmNS. 



that instance of disobedience in me, lie took a sort of a dislike to me, which S 
believe was one cause of the dissipation which marked my succeeding yearai 
1 say dissipation, comparatively with tlie strictness, and sobrie\y, and regular- 
ity of Presbyterian country lif«e ; for though the Will-o'-Wisp meteors ol 
thoughtless whim were almost the sole lights of my path, yet early ingrained 
piety and virtue kept me for several years afterwards within the line of inno- 
cence. The great misfortune of my life was to want an aim. I had felt early 
some stirrings of ambition, but they were the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops 
round the walls of his cave. I saw my father's situation entailed on me per- 
f,etual labour. The only two openings by which I could enter the temple of For- 
tune, was the gate of niggardly economy, or the path of little chicaning bar- 
gain-making. The first is so contracted an aperture, I never could squeeze my- 
self into it ; — the last I always hated — there was contamination in the very en. 
trance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view in life, with a strong, appetite for 
sociability, as well from native hilarity, as from a pride of observation and re- 
mark ; a constitutional melancholy or hypochondriacism, that made me lly soli- 
tude ; add to these incentives to social life, my reputation for bookish knowl- 
edge, a certain wild logical talent, and a strength of thouglit, something like 
the rudiments of good sense; and it will not seem surprising that I was gener- 
ally a welcome guest, where I visited, or any great wonder that, always where 
two or three met together, there I was among them. But far beyond all other 
impulses of my heart, was un penchant dVadorahle moitie da genre humain. 
My heart was completely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess 
or other; and as in every other warfare in this world, my fortune was various 
— sometimes I Was received with favour, and sometimes I was mortified with a re- 
pulse. At the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no competitor, and thus 1 
set absolute want at defiance; and as I never cared farther for my labours than 
while I was in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the way after my own 
heart. A country lad seldom carries on a love-adventure without an assisting 
confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity, that recom- 
mended me as a proper second on these occasions ; and 1 dare say I felt as 
much pleasure in being in the secret of half the loves of the parish of Tarbol- 
ton, as ever did statesman in knowing the intrigues of half the courts of Eu- 
rope. —The very goose-feather in my hand seems to know instinctively the 
well-worn path of my imagination, the favourite theme .of my song; and is 
with difficulty restrained from giving you a couple of paragraphs on the love- 
adventures of my compeers, the humble inmates of the farm-house and cottage; 
but the grave sons of science, ambition, or avarice, baptize these things by the 
name of Follies. To the sons and daughters of labour and poverty, they are 
matters of the most serious nature : to them the ardent hope, the stolen inter- 
view, the tender farewell, are the greatest and most delicious parts of their 
3njoyments. 

"Another circumstance in my life which made some alteration in iny mind 
and manners, was that I spent my nineteenth summer on a smuggling coast, a 
good distance from home, at a noted school, to learn ' mensuration, surveying, 
dialling, &c., in which I made a pretty good progress. But I made a greater 
progress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at th.it 
time very successful, and it sometimes happened to me to fall in with thosia 
who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were till 
this time new to me : but I ivas no enemy to social life. Here, though ' 
learnt to fill my glass and to mix without fear in a drunken squal)ble, yet 1 
went on with a high hand with my geometry, till the sun entered Virgo, a 
month which is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charming fdlette, who 
lived next door to the school, overset my trigonometry, and sent me off at a 
tangent from the sphere of my studies. I, however, struggled on with m} 



MEMOIR OF ROBERT BURNS. 13 

m< '» ^ ' ■ — — . 

tines and co-sines for a few days more ; but stepping into the garden one charw. 
Ing noon to take the sun's altitude, there 1 met my angel, 

Like Proserpine gathering flowers. 
Herself a fairer flower. 

" It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The remaining 
week I staid, I did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul about her, or 
steal out to meet her ; and the two last nights of my stay in the country, had 
sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest and innocent girl had kept me 
guiltless. I 

" I returned home very considerably improved. My reading was enlarged 
with the very important addition of Thomson's and^Shenstone's Works ; I had 
seen human nature in a new phasis : and I engaged several of my school- f el. 
lows to keep up a literary correspondence with me. This improved me in com- 
position. I had met with a collection of letters by the wits of Queen Anne's 
reign, and I pored over them most devoutly ; I kept copies of any of my own 
letters that pleased me ; and a comparison between them and the composition 
of most of my correspondents flattered my vanity. I carried this whim so far, 
that though I had not three farthings' worth of business in the world, yet 
almost every post brought me as many letters as if I had been a plodding son 
of a day-book and ledger. 

"My life flowed on much in the came course till my twenty-third year. 
Vive I' amour, et mm lahagatelle, were my sole principles of miction. The addi- 
tion of two more authors to my library gave me great pleasure ; Sterne 
and M'Kenzie — Tristram SJiandy and The Man of Feeling— \vere my bosom 
favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk for my mind : but it was only in- 
dulged' in according to the humour of the hour. I had usually half a dozen or 
more pieces in hand ; I took up one or the other, as it suited the momentary 
lone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. My pas- 
sions, when once lighted up, raged like so many devils till they got vent in 
rhyme ; and then the conning over my verses, like a spell, soothed all into 
quiet. None of the rhymes of those days are in print, except, Winter, a Dirge, 
the eldest of my printed pieces ; The Death of Poor Mailie, John Barleycorn, 
and songs, first, second, and third. Song second was the ebullition of that 
passion which ended the forementioned school business. 

" My twenty-third year was to me an important era. Partly through whim, 
and partly that I wished to set about doing something in life, I joined a flax- 
dresser in a neighbouring town (Irvine) to learn his trade. This was an unlucky 
affair. My ***** ^ *; and, to finish the whole, as we were giving a welcom- 
ing carousal to the new year, the shop took fire, and burnt to ashes; and I was 
left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence. 

"I was obliged to give up this scheme; the clouds of misfortune were 
gathering thick round my father's head; and what was worst of all, he was 
visibly far gone in a consumption; and, to crown my distresses, a belle fille 
whom I adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet me in the field 
of matrimony, jilted me with peculiar circumstances of mortification. The 
finishing evil that brought up the rear of this infernal file was, my constitu- 
tional melancholy being increased to such a degree, that for three months I was 
in a state of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches who have got 
their mittimus — Depart from me, ye accursed! 

'* From this adventure, I learned something of a town life; but the principal 
thing which gave n: V mind a turn was a friendship I formed with a young 
fellow, a very nob., jharacter, but a hapless son of misfortune. He was a soa 
ol a simple mechanic; but a great man in the neighbourhood taking him under 
|us patronage, gave him a genteel education, with a view of betterii^ 



14 MEMGIIl OF ROBERT BURNS. 

._ _ ' ■ m^ M t » % ^^ I. I ^ .11. . ^ ^ 

liis situation in life. The patron dying just as lie was ready to launch out into 
the world, the poor fellow in despair went to sea; where, after a variety 
of good and ill fortune, a little before I was acquainted with him, he had been 
set ashore by an American privateer, on the wild coast of Connaught, stripped 
of everything. I cannot quit this poor fellow's story without adding, that he 
is at this time master of a large West-Indiaman, belonging to the Thames. ' 

•' His mind was fraught with independence, magnanimity, and every manly 
virtue. I loved and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, and of course 
'Strove to imitate him. In some measure I succeeded; 1 had pride before, but 
'lie taught it to flow in proper channels. His knowledge of the world was 
vastly superior to mine, and I was all attention to learn. He was the only man 
I ever saw who was a greater fool than myself, where woman was the presid- 
ing star; but he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor, which hitherto 
1 had regarded with horror. Here his friendship did me a mischief, and the 
consequence was, that soon after I resumed the plough, I wrote the PoeVa 
Welcome!* My reading only increased, while in this town, by two stray 
volumes of Pamela, and one of Ferdinand Count Fathom, which gave 
me some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some religious pieces that are in print, 
I had given up; but meeting with Fergusson's Scottish Poems, 1 strung anew 
my wildly-sounding lyre with emulating vigour. When my father died, his all 
went among the hell-hounds that growl in the kennel of justice; but we made 
a shift to collect a little money in the family among us, with which, to keep us 
together, my brother and I took a neighbouring farm. My brother wanted my 
hair-brained imagination, as well as my social and amorous madness; bnt, iu 
good sense, and every sober qualification, he was far my superior. 

"" I entered ©n this fann with a full resolution, * Come, go to, l»will be wise!' 
I read farming books; I calculated crops; I attended markets: and, in short, in 
spite of ' the devil, and the world, and the flesh,' I believe 1 should have been 
a wise man; bi^i the first year, from unfortunately buying bad seed,— 
the second, from a late harvest, — we "lost half our crops. Tliis overset all my 
wisdom, and I returned, 'like the dog to his vomit, and the sow that 
Was washed to her wallowing in the mire.' 

'* I now began to be known in the neighbourhood as a maker of rhymes. Tho 
first of my poetic oUspring that saw the light was a burlesque lamentation on a 
quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, both of them dramatis personoz in my 
llohj Fair. I had a notion myself, that the piece had some merit; but 
to prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend who was very fond of such 
things, and told him that I could not guess who was the author of it, but that 
I thought it i^retty clever. With a certain description of the clergy, as well as 
laity, it met with a roar of applause. Holy Willie's Prayer next made its 
appearance, and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they held several meet- 
ings to look over their spiritual artillery, if haply any of it might be pointed 
against profane rhymers. Unluckily for me, my wanderings led me on another 
side, within point-blank shot of their heaviest metal. This is the unfortunate 
story that gave rise to my printed poem The Lament. This was a most melan- 
choly affair, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given 
me one or two of the principal qualifications for a place among those who have 
lost the chart, and mistaken the reckoning, of Rationality. 1 gave up my part 
of the farm to my brother, — in truth, it was only nominally inine, — and made 
what little preparation was in my power for Jamaica. But, before leaving my 
native country forever, I resolved to publish my poems. I weighed my pro- 
ductions as impartially as was in my power; I thought they had merit; and it 
was a delicious idea that I should be called a clever fellow, even though it 
ihould never reach my ears — a poor negro-driver, — or perhaps a victim to that 

* Rob the Rhymer's Welcome to his Bastard Chili-, 



I\rEMOIR OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Jnliosjitable clime, and gone to the world of spirits ! I can truly say, that 
'pavxre inconnu as I then was, I had pretty nearly as high an idea of myself 
and my works as I have at this moment, when the public has decided in their 
favour. It ever was my opinion, that the mistakes and blunders, both in a 
rational and religious point of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, 
iire owing to their ignorance of themselves.— To know myself has been 
all along my constant study. I weighed myself alone; I balanced myself with 
others; I watched every means of information, to see how much ground 1 occu- 
pied as a man and as a poet: 1 studied assiduously Nature's design in my form- 
ation—where the lights and shades in my character were intended. I was pretty 
confident my poems would meet with some applause; but, at the worst, the 
roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of West 
Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, of 
which I iiad got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty.— My vanity 
was highly gratified by the reception I met with from the public; and besides, 
I pocketed, all expenses deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This sum came very 
seasonably, as I was thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to pro- 
cure my passage. As soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price of 
wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage passage in the first ship that 
was to sail from the Clyde; for 

Hungry ruin had me in the wind. 

" I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the ter- 
rors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of 
the law at my heels. I had taJcen the last farewell of my friends ; my chest 
was on the road to Greenock ; 1 had composed the last song I should ever 
measure in Caledonia, 'The gloomy night was gathering fast,' when a letter 
from Dr. Blacklock, to a friend of 'mine, overthrew all my schemes, by open- 
ing new prospects to my poetic ambition. The Doctor belonged to a set of 
critics, for whose applause I had not dared to hope. His opinion that I would 
meet with encouragement in Edinburgh for a second edition fired me so much, 
that away I posted for that city, without a single acquaintance, or a single 
letter of introduction. The baneful star, that had so long shed its blasting 
influence in my zenith, for once made a revolution to the Nadir ; and a kind 
Providence placed me under the patronage of one of the noblest of men, the 
Earl of Glencairn. OuUiemoi, Grand Dieu, si jamais je rouhlie! 

" I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I was in a new world ; I mingled 
among many classes of men, but all of them new to me, and I was all attention 
to catch the characters and ' the manners living as they rise. ' Whether I have 
profited, time will show." 

Burns set out for Edinburgh in the month of November, 1786, and ar 
rived on the second day afterwards, having performed his journey on foot. 
He was furnished with a letter of introduction to Dr. Blacklock from Mr. 
Laurie, to whom the Doctor had addressed the letter which has been repre- 
sented as the immediate cause of his visiting the Scottish metropolis. He was 
acquainted with Mr. Stewart, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the Univer- 
sity, and had been entertained by that gentleman at Catrine, his estate in Ayr 
shire. He had been introduced by Mr. Alexander Dalzel to the Earl of Glen- 
cairn, who had expressed his high approbation of his poetical talents. He had 
friends, therefore, who could introduce him into the circles of literature, as 
well as of fashion, and his own manners and appearance exceeding every ex 
pectation that could have been formed of them, he soon became an object of 
general curiosity and admiration. 

The scene that opened on our bard in Edinburgh was altogether new, and m 
a variety of other respects higlily interesting, especially to one of his disposi- 
tion,of mind. To use an ex,prt;;aHi.jn of his owa he found hiiuiiclf " suJdenbl 



19 HEMOm OF KOBEKT BUHBOl / 

■ ^ -A- 

translated from the veriest shades of life,** Into the presence, and Indeed fBt« 
the society, of a number of persons, previously known to hira by report as of 
the highest distinction in his country, and whose characters It was naturtd 
for him to examine with no common curiosity. 
From the men of letters in general, his reception was particularly flattering. 

A taste for letters is not always conjoined with habits of temperance and 
regularity; and Edinburgh, at the time of which we speak, contained perhaps 
an uncommon proportion of men of considerable talents, devoted to social ex- 
cesses, in which their talents were wasted and debased. 

Burns entered into several parties of this description, with the usual vehe- 
mence of his character. His generous affections, his ardent eloquence, hia 
brilliant and daring imagination, fitted him to be the idol of such associations ; 
and accustoming himself to conversation of unlimited range, and to festive in- 
dulgences that scorned restraint, he gradually lost some portion of his relish 
for the more pure, but less poignant pleasures, to be found in the circles of 
taste, elegance and literature. The sudden alteration in his habits of life op- 
erated on him physically as well as morally. The humble fare of an Ayrshire 
peasant he had exchanged for the luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and the 
effects of this change on his ardent constitution could not be inconsiderable. 
But whatever influence might be produced on his conduct, his excellent under- 
standing suffered no corresponding debasement. He estimated his friends and 
associates of every description at their proper value, and appreciated his own 
conduct with a precision that might give scope to much curious and melan- 
choly reflection. He saw his danger, and at times formed resolutions to guard 
against it; but he had embarked on the tide of dissipation, and was borne 
along its stream. 

By the new edition of his poems, Burns acquired a sum of money that en- 
abled him not only to partake of the pleasures of Edinburgh, but to gratify a 
desire he had long entertained, of visiting those parts of his native country 
most attractive by their beauty or their grandeur; a desire which the return of 
summer naturally revived. The scenery of the banks of the Tweed, and of its 
tributary streams, strongly interested his fancy; and, accordingly, he left 
Edinburgh on the 6th of May, 1787, on a tour through a couiitry so much cele- 
brated in the rural songs of Scotland. He travelled on horseback, and was 
accompanied, during some part of his journey, by Mr. Ainslie, writer to the 
signet, a gentleman who enjoyed much of his friendship and his confidence. 

Having spent three weeks in exploring the interesting scenery of the Tweed, 
the Jed, the Teviot, and other border districts. Burns crossed over into Nortli- 
umberland. Mr. Kerr and Mr. Hood, two gentlemen with whom he had 
become acquainted in the course of his tour, accompanied him. He visited 
Alnwick Castle, the princely seat of the Duke of Northumberland ; the hermit- 
age and old castle of Warksworth ; Morpeth, and Newcastle. In this town he 
spent two days, and then proceeded to the southwest by Hexham and Wardrue, 
to Carlisle. After spending a day at Carlisle with his f rien-d Mr. Mitchell, he 
returned into Scotland by way of Annan. 

Of the various persons with whom he became acquainted in the course of 
this journey, he has, in general, given some account, and almost always a 
favourable one. From Annan, Burns proceeded to Dumfries, and thence 
through Sanquhar, to Mossgiel, near Mauchline, in Ayrshire, where he arrived 
about the 8th of June, 1787, after a long absence of six busy and eventful 
months. It will easily be conceived with what pleasure and pride he was 
received by his mother, his brothers and sisters. He had left them poor, and 
comparatively friendless ; he returned to them high in public estimation, and 
easy in his circumstances. He returned to them unchanged in his ardent 
affections, and ready to share with them, to the uttermost farthing, the pittanc« 
that fortune had bestowed. 

Having remained with them a few days, he proceeded again to Edinburgh, 
ind immedia^'"^'' ""^ -—^ -iourney to ^ Hic rhl«»wf»°. 



MEMOm OF ROBERT BURNS. 11 

From this journey Burns returned to his friends in Ayrshire, with whom he 
fspent the montli of July, renewing his friendsliips, and extending his acquaint- 
ance throughout the county, where he was now very generally known and 
admired. In August he again visited Edinburgli, whence he undertook 
another journey, towards the middle of this montli, in company with Mr. M. 
Adair, afterwards Dr. Adair, of Harrowgate. 

The different journeys already mentioned did not satisfy the curiosity of 
Burns. About the beginning of September he again set out from Edinburgh, 
on a more extended tour to the Highlands, in company with Mr. Nicol, with 
whom he had contracted a particular intimacy, which lasted during the remain- 
der of his life. Mr. Nicol was of Dumfriesshire, of a descent equally humble 
with our poet. Like him he rose by the strength of his talents, and fell by the 
strength of his passions. He died in the summer of 1797. Having received 
the elements of a classical instruction at his parish school, Mr. Nicol made a 
very rapid and singular proficiency ; and by early undertaking the office of an 
instructor himself, he acquired the means of entering himself at the University 
of Edinburgh. There he was first a student of theology, then a student of 
medicine, and was afterwards employed in the assistance and instruction of 
graduates in medicine, in those parts of their exercises in which the Latin lan- 
guage is employed. In this situation he was the contemporary and rival of 
the celebrated Dr. Brown, whom he resembled in the particulars of his history, 
as well as in the leading features of his character. The office of assistant- 
teacher in the High-School being vacant, it was as usual filled up by compe- 
tition ; and in the face of some prejudices, and perhaps of some well-founded 
objections, Mr. Nicol, by superior learning, carried it from all the other candi- 
dates. This office he filled at the period of which we speak, 

Mr. Nicol and our poet travelled in a post-chaise, which they engaged for 
the journey, and passing through the heart of the Highlands, stretched north- 
wards about ten miles beyond Inverness. There they bent their course east- 
ward, across the island, and returned by the shore of the German Sea to Edin- 
burgh. In the course of this tour, they visited a number of remarkable 
scenes, and the imagination of Burns was constantly excited by the wild and 
sublime scenery through which he passed. 

A few days after leaving Blair of Athole, our poet and his fellow-traveller 
arrived at Fochabers. In the course of the preceding winter Burns had been 
introduced to the Duchess of Gordon at Edinburgh, and presuming on this 
acquaintance, he proceeded to Gordon Castle, leaving Mr. Nicol at the inn in 
the village. At the castle our poet was received with the utmost hospitality 
and kindness, and the family being about to sit down to dinner, he was invited 
to take his place at the table, as a matter of course. This invitation he accepted, 
and after drinking a few glasses of wine, he rose up, and proposed to with- 
draw. On being pressed to stay, he mentioned, for the first time, his engage- 
ment with his fellow-traveller; and his noble host offering to send a servant tc 
conduct Mr. Nicol to the castle. Burns insisted on undertaking that office him- 
self. He was, however, accompanied by a gentleman, a particular acquaint- 
ance of the Duke, by whom the invitation was delivered in all the forms of 
politeness. The invitation, however, came too late; the pride of Nicol was 
inflamed to the highest degree by the neglect which he had already suffered. 
He had ordered the horses to be put to the carriage, being determined to pro- 
ceed on his journey alone; and they found him parading the streets of Focha- 
bers, before the door of the inn, venting his anger on the postillion, for the 
slowness with which be obeyed his commands. As no explanation nor en- 
treaty could change the purpose of his fellow-traveller, our poet was reduced 
to the necessity of separating from him entirely, or of instantly proceeding 
with him on their journey. He chose the last of these alternatives; and seat- 
Jn*? himself beside Nicol in the post-chaise, with mortification and reerret he 



18 MEMOIR OF ROBERT BURNS. 

■ — ■ / »' * 

turned his back on Gordon Castle; where he had promised himself someXappj 
days. ^ 

Burns remained at Edinburgh during the greater part of the winter, 1787-8, 
and again entered into the society and dissipation of that metropolis. 

On settling with his publisher, Mr. Creech, in February, 1788, Burns found 
himself master of nearly five hundred pounds, after discharging all his expen- 
ses. Two hundred pounds he immediately advanced to his brother Gilbert, 
who had taken upon himself the support of their aged mother, and was strug 
gling with many difficulties in the farm of Mossgiel. With the remainder oil 
this sum, and some farther eventual profits from his poents, he determined od 
settling himself for life in the occupation of agriculture, and took from Mr. 
Miller, of Dalswinton, the farm of Ellisland, on the banks of the river Nith, 
six miles above Dumfries, on which he entered at Whitsunday, 1788. Haring 
been previously recommended to the Board of Excise, his name had been put 
on the list of candidates for the humble office of a gauger, or exciseman ; 
and he immediately applied to acquiring the iuformadon necessary for filling 
that office, when the honourable Board might judge it proper to employ hini. 
He expected to be called into service in the district in which his farm was sit- 
iiated, and vainly hoped to unite with success the labours of the farmer with 
the duties of the exciseman. 

When Burns had in this manner arranged his plans for futurity, his gener- 
ous heart turned to the object of his most ardent attachment, and listening to 
no considerations but those of honour and affection^ he joined with her in a 
public declaration of marriage, thus legalising their union, and rendering it 
permanent for life. 

It was not convenient for Mrs. Burns to remove immediately from Ayrshire, 
and our poet therefore took up his residence alone at Ellisland, to prepare for 
The reception of his wife and children, who joined him towards the end of the 
year. 

The situation in which Burns now found himself was calculated to awaken 
reflection. The different steps he had of late taken were in their nature highly 
important, and might be said to have, in some measure, fixed his destiny. He 
had become a husband and a father ; he had engaged in the management of a 
considerable farm, a difficult and labourious undertaking ; in his success the 
happiness of his family was involved ; it was time, therefore, to abandon the 
gayety and dissipation of which he had been too much enamoured ; to ponder 
seriously on the past, and to form virtuous resolutions respecting the future. 

He commenced by immediately rebuilding the dwelling house on his farm, 
which, in the state he found it, was Inadequate to the accommodation of his 
family. On this occasion, he himself resumed at times the occupation of a la- 
bourer, and found neither his strength nor his skill impaired. Pleased with 
surveying the grounds he was about to cultivate, and with the rearing of a 
building that should give shelter to his wife and children, and, as he fondly 
hoped, to his own gray hairs, sentiments of independence buoyed up his mind, 
pictures of domestic content and peace rose on his imagination ; and a few 
days passed away, as he himself informs us, the most tranquil, if not the hap 
piest, which he had ever experienced. 

His fame naturally drew upon him the attention of his neighbours, and he 
soon formed a general acquaintance in the district in which he lived. The 
public voice had now pronounced on the subject of his talents ; the reception 
lie had met with in Edinburgh had given him the currency which fashion be- 
stows ; he had surmounted the prejudices arising from his humble birth, and 
lie was received at the table of the gentlemen of Nithsdale with welcome, with 
kindness, and even with respect. Their social parties too often seduced him 
from his rustic labours, and it was not long, therefore, before, Burns began to 
view his farm with dislike and despondence, if not with disgust. 



MEMOITv OF TIOBERT BURNS. It 

Ee might indeed still be seen in the spring directing his plough, a labour ia 
"which he excelled ; or with a white sheet containing his seed-corn, slun[; 
across his shoulders, striding with measured steps along his turned-up fur- 
rows, and scattering the grain in the earth. But his farm no longer occupied 
the principal part of his care or his thoughts. It was not at Ellislaud that he 
was now in general to be found. Mounted on horseback, this high-minded 
poet was pursuing the defaulters of the revenue among the hills and vales of 
Nithsdale, his roving eye wandering over the charms of nature, and Muttering 
his way ward fancies as he moved along. 

Besides his duties in the Excise and his social pleasures, other circumstances 
interfered with the attention of Burns to his farm. He engaged in the forma- 
tion of a society for purchasing and circulating books among the farmers of his 
neighbourhood, of which he undertook the management ; and he occupied him- 
self occasionally in composing songs for the musical work of Mr. Johnson, 
then in the course of publication. These engagements, useful and honourable 
in themselves, contributed, no doubt, to the abstraction of his thoughts from 
the business of agriculture. 

The consequences may be easily imagined. Notwithstanding the uniform 
prudence and good management of Mrs. Burns, and though his rent was mod- 
erate and reasonable, our poet found it convenient, if not necessary, to resigii 
his farm to Mr. Miller, after having occupied it three years and a half. His 
office in the Excise had originally produced about fifty pounds per annum. 
Having acquitted himself to the satisfaction of the Board, he had been ap- 
pointed to a new district, the emoluments of which rose to about seventy pounds 
per annum. Hoping to support himself and his family on his humble income 
till promotion should reach him, he disposed of his stock and of his crop on 
Ellisland by public auction, and removed to a small house which he had taken 
in Dumfries, about the end of the year 1791. 

Hitherto Burns, though addicted to excess in social parties, had abstained 
from the habitual use of strong liquors, and his constitution had not suffered 
any permanent injury from the irregularities of his conduct. In Dumfries, 
temptations to "the sin that so easiljv, beset him" continually presented them- 
selves ; and his irregularities grew by degrees into habits. These temptations 
unhappily occurred during his engagements in the business of his office, as well 
as during his hours of relaxation ; and though he clearly foresaw the conse- 
quence of yielding to them, his appetites and sensations, which could not per- 
vert the dictates of his judgment, finally triumphed over the powers of his 
will. 

Still, however, he cultivated the society of persons of taste and respectability, 
and in their company could impose upon himself the restraints of temperance 
and decorum. Nor was his muse dormant. In the four years which he lived 
at Dumfries, he produced many of his beautiful lyrics, though it does not ap- 
pear that he attempted any poem of considerable length. 

Burns had entertained hopes of promotion in the Excise ; but circumstances 
occurred which retarded their fulfilment, and which, in his own mind, destroy- 
ed all expectation of their being ever fulfilled. 

In the midst of all his wanderings, Burns met nothing in his~domestic circle 
but gentleness and forgiveness, except in the gnawings of his own remorse. 
He acknowledged his transgressions to the wife of his bosom, promised amend- 
ment, and again received pardon for his offences. But as the strength of his 
body decayed, his resolution became feebler, and habit acquired predominating 
strength. 

From October, 1795, to the January following, an accidental complaint 
confined him to the kousc- A few days after he began to go abroad, he dined 
at a tavern, and returned about three o'clock in a very cold morning, benumbed 
and intoxicated. This was followed by an attack of rheumatism, which con- 
tined him about a week. His ap^ictite now bcjiau W tail ; iiia haud shook. aa4 



so MEMOIR OF ROBERT BURNS. 

his voice faltered on any exertion or emotion. His pulse became weaker and 
more rapid, and pain in the larger joints, and in the hands and feet, deprived 
him of the enjoyment of refreshing sleep. Too much dejected in his spirits, 
and too well aware of his real situation to entertain hopes of recovery, he was 
ever musing on the approaching desolation of his family, and his spirits sunk 
into a uniform gloom. 

It was hoped by some of his friends, that if he could live tbrough the months 
of spring, the succeeding season might restore him. But they were disappoint- 
ed. The genial beams of the sun infused no vigour into his languid frame ; the 
summer wind blew upon him, but produced no refreshment. About the latter 
end of June he was advised to go into the country, and, impatient of medical 
advice, as well as of every species of control, he determined for himself to try 
the effects of bathing in the sea. For this purpose he took up his residence at 
Brow, in Annandale, about ten miles east of Dumfries, on the shore of the 
Solway-Frith. 

At first, Bm-ns imagined bathing in the sea had been of benefit to him; ' the 
pains in his limbs were relieved ; but this was immediately followed by a new 
attack of fever. When brought back to his own house in Dumfries, on the 18th 
July, he was no longer able to stand upright. At this time a tremor pervaded 
his frame; liis tongue was parched, and his mind sunk into delirium, when not 
roused by conversation. On the second and third day the fever increased, 
and his strength diminished. On the fom-th, the sufferings of this great but ill- 
fated genius were terminated, and a hfe was closed in which virtue and passion 
had been at perpetual variance. 

The death of Burns made a strong and general impression on all who had 
interested themselves in his character, and especially on the inhabitants of the 
town and country in which he had spent the latter years of his life. The 
Gentlemen- Volunteers of Dumfries determined to bmy their illustrious associate 
with military honours, and every preparation was made to render this last ser- 
vice solemn and impressive. The Fencible Infantry of Angusshire, and the 
regiment of cavalry of the Cinque Ports, at that time quartered in Dumfries, 
offered their assistance on this occasion ; the principal inhabitants of the town 
and neighbourhood determined to walk in the funeral procession ; and a vast con- 
course of persons assembled, some of them from a considerable distance, 
to witness the obsequies of the Scottish Bard. On the evening of the 25th of 
July, the remains of Burns were removed from his house to the Town Hall, and 
the funeral took place on the succeeding day. A party of the Volunteers, 
selected to perform the military duty in the churchyard stationed themselves 
in the front of the procession with their arms reversed ; the main body of the 
corps surrounded and supported the coffin, on which were placed the hat and 
sword of their friend and fellow-soldier; the numerous body of attendants 
ranged themselves in the rear ; while the Fencible regiments of infantry and 
cavalry lined the streets from the Town Hall to the burial-ground in the 
Southern churchyard, a distance of more than half a mile. The whole proces- 
sion moved forward to that sublime and affecting strain of music, the Dead 
March in Saul ; and three volleys fired over his grave marked the return of 
Burns to his parent earth! The spectacle was in a high degree grand and 
solemn, and according with the general sentiments of sympathy and sorrow 
which the occasion had called forth. 

It was an affecting circumstance, that, on the morning of the day of her hus- 
band's funeral, Mrs. Burns was undergoing the pains of labour, and that during 
the solemn service we have just been describing, the posthumous son of our 
poet was born. This infant boy, who received the name of Maxwell, was not 
destined to a long life. He has already become an inhabitant of the same grave 
with his celebrated father. 

The sense of his poverty, and of the approaching distress of his infant family, 
pressed h«avily on Burns as he lay on the bed of deatlu Yet he aUuded to hia 



MEMOIR OT ROBERT BtTRNS. SS 

fc aurr — ' ' 

indigence, at times, with sonietliing approaching to his wonted gayety, — "What 
business," said he to Dr. Maxwell, who attended him with the utmost zeal, 
" has a physician to waste his time on meV i am a poor pigeon not worth 
plucking. Alas ! I have not feather enough upon me to carry me to my grave.' 
And when his reason was lost in delirium, his ideas ran in the same melancholy 
train; the horrors of a jail were continually present to his troubled imagination, 
and produced the most affecting exclamations. 

On the death of Burns, the inhabitants of Dumfries and its neighbourhood 
opened a subscription for the support of his wife and family. The subscrip 
tion was extended to other parts of Scotland, and of England also, particularly 
London and Liverpool. By this means a sum was raised amounting to seven 
hundred pounds, and thus the widow and children were rescued from imme- 
diate distress, and the most melancholy of the forebodings of Burns happily 
disappointed. 

Burns, as has already been mentioned, was nearly five feet ten inches in height, 
and a form that indicated agility as well as strength. His well-raised forehead, 
shaded with black curling hair, indicated extensive capacity. His eyes were 
large, dark, fall of ardour and intelligence. His face was well formed; and hia 
countenance uncommonly interesting and expressive. The tones of his voice 
happily corresponded with the expression of his features, and with the feelings 
of his mind. When to these endowments are added a rapid and distinct appre- 
hension, a most powerful understanding, and a happy command of language — 
of strength as well as brilliancy of expression — we shall be able to account foi 
the extraordinary attractions of his conversation — for the sorcery which, in his 
social parties, he seemed to exert on all around him. In the company of women 
this sorcery was more especially apparent. Their presence charmed the fiend 
of melancholy in his bosom, and awoke his happiest feelings; it excited the 
powers of his fancy, as well as the tenderness of his heart; and, by restraining 
the vehemence and the exuberance of his language, at times gave to his man- 
ners the impression of taste, and even of elegance, which in the company q< 
men they seldom possessed. This inlluenc« wa« doubtless reciprocaL 



r 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Orioival Preface 

Dedication to Edinburgh Edition 

Memoir 5 

POEMS. 

A Bard's Epitaph.... 90 

Adam A 's Prayer 138 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. ... go 

n Dream 84 

Address of Beelzebub to the President of 

the Highland Society 83 

Address Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on 

her Benetit Night • 147 

Address to Edinburgh 101 

Address to the Deil 53 

Address to the Shade of Thomson, on 
Crowning his Bust at Ednam, Rox- 
burghshire, with Bays 137 

Address to the Toothache 118 

Address to the Unco Guid, or the Rigidly 

Righteous 78 

A Mother's Lament for the Death of her 

Son 114 

Answer to a Poetical Epistle sent to the 

Author by a Tailor 67 

A Prayer, Left by the Author at a -Rev- 
erend Friend's House, in the Room 

where he Slept 96 

A Prayer in the Prospect of Death 37 

A Prayer under the Pressure of Violent 

Anguish 35 

A Winter Night 63 

Castle Gordon 109 

D?ath and Dr. Hornbook 79 

D-'ha lis 

Despondency: an Ode 82 

Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson. . . 12S 

Elegy on Miss Burnet of Monboddo 134 

Elegy on Peg Nicholson 127 

Elegy on the Death of Robert Dundas, 

Esq., of Arniston in 

Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux. 38 
Blc^y on the Death of Sir James Hunter 

Blair 107 

Elegy on the Year 1788 115 

Epistle from Esopus to Maria 141 

Epitaph on Holy Willie 44 

Halloween.... 4=; 

Holy Willie's Prayer.... 43 



9ACM 

Impromptu on Mrs. Riddel's Birthday.... 141 
Invitation to a Medical Gentleman to At- 
tend a Masonic Anniversary Meeting... gf» 

Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn 13J 

Lament occasioned by the Unfortunate 

Issue of a Friend's Amour 8« 

Lament of Mary Queen of Scots on the 

approach of Spring 13J 

Liberty: a Fragment 144 

Lines on Fergusson 139 

Lines on Meeting with Lord Daer 100 

Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord, Bart., 

of Whitefoord 137 

Lines Written in a Wrapper, enclosing a 

Letter to Captain Grose 123 

Lines Written in Friars' Carse Hermitage, 

on the Banks of the Nith 113 

Lines Written in Friars' Carse Hermitage, 

on Nilhside 114 

Lines Written en a Bank-Notc ga 

Lines Written to a Gentleman who had 

Sent him a Kewspaper, and offered to 

Continue it free of Expen.^e laS 

Lines Written with a Pencil over the 

Chimney-piece in the Parlour of the 

Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth.. 108 

Lines Written with a Pencil, Standing by 

the Fall of Fyers, near Loch Ness.. 109 

Man was Made to Mourn 49 

Mauchline Belles 39 

Monody on a Lady Famed for her Caprice. 14a 

Nature's Law loS 

Ode: Sacred to tlic Memory of Mrs. Os- 
wald 115 

Ode to Ruin 83 

Oh, why tl'.e Deuce sliould I Repine 37 

On Scaring some Wditr-fowl in Loch 

Turit no 

On Sensibility 139 

On the Hirr'i of n Pcs^ip-r.-ors Child 134 

On ilie Death ui a l-avuuriie Ciiild 140 

Poem on Pastoral Poetiy 143 

Pottio-ii Ad-Ire'-s io Mr. Wiilia;-! Tviler... iia 
Prologue lor Mr. SuLherlaiK.".-, Benefit 

Ni- In. D iinfries t^ 

Prologue, Spoken at the Theatre, Dum- 
fries, on New-Year's Day Evening, 

1790 12^ 

Prologue, Spoken by Mr. Woods on his 
Benetit Night ***.««.. --•••• ttf 



24 



CONTENTS. 



I'AGE 

Remorse 67 

Scotch Drink 65 

Sketch : Inscribed to the Right Hon. C. 

J. Fox 117 

Sketch — New-Year's Day, 1790 123 

Sketch of a Character io5 

Sonnet on Hearing a Thrush Sing in a 

Morning Walk 141 

Sonnet on the Death of Robert Riddel, 

Esq., of Glenriddel 143 

3tanzas in the Prospect of Death 37 

Stanzas on the Duke of Queensberry 127 

Tam o' Shanter 130 

Tam Samson's Elegy 94 

The Auld Farmer's New- Year Morning 

Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie, on 

Giving her the Accustomed Rip of Corn 

to Hansel in the New Year 71 

The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer to 

the Scotch Representatives in the House 

of Commons 68 

The Belles of Mauchline 37 

The Brigs of Ayr 96 

The Calf 53 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 50 

The Death and Dying Words of Poor 

Maillie 35 

The Farewell 92 

The first Psalm 38 

The First Six Verses of the Ninetieth 

Psalm 38 

The Hermit 105 

The Holy Fair 86 

The Humble Petition of Bruar Water to 

the Noble Duke of Athole toS 

The Inventory 79 

The Jolly Beggers 55 

The Kirk's Alarm 119 

The Ordination 76 

The Poet's Welcome to his Illegitimate 

Child T02 

The Rights of Woman 139 

The Torbolton Lasses 33 

The Tree of Liberty 144 

The TwaDogs 72 

The Twa Herds : or, The Holy Tulzie. ... 41 

The Vision 60 

The Vowels : A Tale 137 

The Whistle 120 

To a Haggis 103 

To a Kiss 140 

To a Louge, on Seeing one on a Lady's 

Bonnet at Church 76 

To a Mountain Daisy 80 

To a Mouse 44 

To Captain Riddel of Glenriddel 115 

To Chloris 145 

To Clannda 112 

To Clarinda 112 

To Clarinda 113 

To Clarinda ii^ 

To Collector Mitchell 147 

To Colonel De Peyster 148 

To John Taylor 116 

To Miss Cruikshank 110 

To Miss Ferrier 107 

To *Miss Jessy Lewars, Dumfries 148 



PAG« 

To Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems as 
a Ncw-Ycar'c Gift, January 1, 1787 103 

To Mrs. C , on Receiving a Work of 

H.innah Mores 103 

To the Owl '.....* 125 

Tragic Fragmcir. 33 

Verses intended co be Written Below a 
Noble Earl's Picture 103 

Verses on an Evening View of the Ruins 
of Lincluden Abbey 125 

Verses on a Scotch Bard Gone to the 
West Indies 89 

Verses on Captain Grose's Peregrinations 
through Scotland Collecting the An- 
tiquities of that Kingdom 122 

Verses on Reading in a Newspaper the 
Death of John M'Leod, Esq lod 

Verses on Seeing a wounded Hare Limp 
by me which a Fellow had just Shot.... 117 

Verses on the Destruction of the Woods 
near Drumlanrig 146 

Verses to an 0;d Sweetheart After her 
Marriage 93 

Verses to John Maxwell of Terraughty, 
on his Birthday 137 

Verses to John Rankine 139 

Verses to Miss Graham ef Fintry, with a 
Present of Songs 144 

Verses to my Bed 127 

Verses Written under \ iolent Grief 93 

Willie Chalmers 94 

Winter : a Dirge 35 

EPISTLES. 

Epistle to a Young Friend 164 

Epistle to Davie 150 

Epistle to Dr. Blacklock 171 

Epistle to Gavin Hamilton, E;-.q 163 

Epistle to Hugh Parker 168 

Epistle to James Smith 161 

Epistle to James Tait of Glenconner 170 

Epistle to John Goudie, Kilmarnock 155 

Epistle to John Lapraik 15a 

Epistle to John Rankine 149 

Epistle to Major Logan 163 

Epistle to Mr. M'Adam of Craigengillan. 165 

Epistle to the Rev. John M'Math 159 

Epistle to William Creech 167 

Epistle to William Simpson 155 

First Epistle to R. Graham, Esq., of Fintry. i6g 
Fourth Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., 

of Fintry 175 

Poetical Invitation to Mr. John Kennedy 163 

Second Epistle to Davie 160 

Second Epistle to Lapraik 153 

Second Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., 

of Fintry 173 

4 Third Epistle to John Lapraik 158 

Third Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of 

Fintry 174 

To the Guidwife of Wauchope House...* z6t 

EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS, &c. 

A Bottle and an Honest Friend 188 

A Farewell 177 

A Grace before Dinner 188 

Another's Address to her Infant z8/ 



CONTENTS. 



i^ 



PAGE 

Epigram on Bacon 182 

Epitaph on a Suicide n • • • • 183 

Epitaph on Robert Aiken, Esq 185 

Epitaph on Tam the Chapman.. . . .- 185 

Epitaph on the Author's Father 176 

Epitaph on W ^79 

Extempore on Two Lawyers 177 

Extempore on William Smellie 178 

Extempore, Pinned to a Lady's Coach... . 183 

[Extempore to Mr. Syme 184 

Grace after Dinner i88 

Grace after Dinner 188 

Howlet Face 187 

Innocence 179 

Inscription on a Goblet 184 

Johnny Peep 186 

Lines on Viewing- Stirling Palace 178 

Lines sent to a Gentleman whom he had 

Offended 181 

Lines Spoken Extempore on being ap- 

pomted to the Excise 179 

Lines to John Rankine 188 

Lines Written under the Picture of the 

Celebrated Miss Burns 178 

Lines Written on a Pane of Glass in the 

Inn at Moffat.. 179 

On a Celebrated Ruling Elder 185 

On a Country Laird 185 

On a Friend 185 

On a. Henpecked Country Squire 186 

On a Henpecked Country Squire 186 

On a Henpecked Country Squire 186 

On a Noisy Polemic 186 

On a Noted Coxcomi 186 

On a Person Nicknan ^ the Marquis 179 

On a Schoolmaster.. .. 179 

On a Sheep's Head 181 

On a Wag in Mauchline 177 

On Andrew Turner i83 

On Burns' Horse being Impounded 180 

On Captain Francis Grose 180 

On Elphinstone's Translation of Martial's 

" Epigrams " 179 

On Excisemen 183 

On Gabriel Richardson, Brewer, Dum- 
fries 181 

On Gavin Hamilton 185 

On Grizzei Grim 180 

On Incivility shown to him at Inverary.. . 179 

On John Bushby 187 

On John Dove, Innkeeper, Mauchline... . 176 

On Lord Galloway 182 

On Lord Galloway 182 

On Miss Jean Scott of Ecclefechan 186 

On Mr. Burton 180 

On Mr. W. Cruikshank 187 

On Mrs. Kemble 182 

On Robert Riddel 183 

On Seeing Miss Fontenelle in a favourite 

Character 181 

On Seeing the Beautiful Seat of Lord 

Galloway ig2 

On the Death of a Lap-Dog named Echo. 181 

On the Illness of a Favourite Child 177 

On the Kirk of Lamington, ia Clydesdale. 187 



PAGB 

On the Poet's Daughter 184 

On the Recovery of Jessy Lewars 188 

On the Sickness of Miss Jessy Lewars.... 188 

On Wat 187 

On Wee Johnny 185 

Poetical Inscription for an Altar to Inde- 
pendence 184 

Poetical Reply to an Invitation 177 

Poetical Reply to an Invitation 180 

The Black-headed Eagle 181 

The Book-worms i8a 

The Creed of Poverty 183 

The Epitaph 182 

The Henpecked Husband 186 

The Highland Welcome 178 

The Parson's Looks 183 

The Parvenu 184 

The Reproof 178 

The Selkirk Grace 183 

The Toast 184 

The Toast 188 

The True Loyal Natives 185 

Though Fickle Fortune has Deceived Me. 176 

To a Painter ^7^ 

To a Young Lady in a Church • ... 177 

To Dr. Maxwell 183 

To John M'Murdo,Esq 180 

To John M'Murdo, Esq i8a 

To Lord Galloway 106 

To Miss Jessy Lewars ^88 

To Mr. Syme 184 

To the Editor of the Siar 18a 

Verses Addressed to the Landlady of the 
Inn at Rosslyn 179 

Verses to John Rankine i8i 

Verses Written on a Pane of Glass, on the 
Occasion of a National Thanksgiving 
for a Naval Victory 187 

Verses Written on a Window of the Globe 
Tavern, Dumfries 183 

Verses Written on a Window of the Inn 
at Carron 178 

Verses Wr cten under the Portrait of 
Fergusson the Poet 177 

Written in a Lady's Pocket-book 183 

SONGS. 

Address to the Woodlark 283 

Adown Wmding Nith 250 

Ae Fond Kiss 23a 

A Farewell to the Brethren of St. James' 

Lodge, Torbolton 201 

A Fragment 196 

Afton Water 199 

Ah, Chloris ! 265 

Amang the Trees, where Humming Bees. 273 

An Excellent New Song 288 

Anna, thy Charms 261 

A Red, Ited Rose 259 

A Rosebud by my Early Walk 206 

As I was A-wandering 246 

Auld Lang Syne 213 

Auld Rob Morris 243 

A Visionti««i«.*i ^ 



iStf 



CTUJVTIUJSU'S. 



Bannocks o' Barley 273 

■jAehold the Hour 232 

Abss and her Spinning-Wheel 238 

Beware o' Bonny Ann 223 

Blithe Hae I Been 253 

BHthe was She ' 206 

Blooming Nelly 224 

Bonny Dundee 206 

Bonny Lesley 234 

Bonny Peg 244 

Bonny Peg-a-Ramsay 272 

Bonny Peggy Alison 210 

Braving Angry Winter's Storms 207 

Braw lads of Gala Water 214 

Brose and Butter 291 

Bruce's Address to his Army at Bannock- 
burn 257 

By Allan Stream I Chanced to Rove 255 

Caledonia 271 

Caledonia 284 

Canst thou Leave me thus, my Katy ? 268 

Cassillis' Banks 273 

Ca' the Ewes 229 

Ca' the Yowes 263 

Chloris 264 

Cock up your Beaver 243 

Come Boat me o'er to Charlie 217 

Come, let Me Take Thee 256 

Come Rede Me, Dame 227 

^oming through the Braes o' Cupar 276 

t^oramg through the Rye 278 

Contented wi" Little 268 

Countrie Lassie 239 

Craigie-Burn Wood 235 

Dainty Davie 256 

Damon and Sylvia 291 

Deluded Swam, the Pleasure 258 

Duncan Gray ,... 243 

£liza 200 

Eppie Adair 227 

Fair Eliza 239 

Fairest Maid on Devon Banks 289 

Fair Jenny 257 

Aireweel to a' our Scottish Fame 249 

Farewell, thou Stream 267 

Forlorn, my Love, no Comfort near 283 

For the Sake of Somebody 260 

Frae the Friends and Land I Love 235 

Fragment— Chloris 284 

Gara Water 250 

Gloomy December 232 

Green Grow the Rashes, O ! 195 

Guid E'en to You, Kimmer 277 

Guidwife, Count the Lawin 228 

Had laCave 2=;=; 

Had Ithe Wyte 271 

Happy Friendship zaa 

HeeBalou! 272 

Her Daddie Forbad 215 

Here^sa Health to Them that's Awa' 249 



Here's his Health m Water. 



273 



Here's to thy Health, my Bonny Lass 26- 

Her Flowing Locks 274 

HeyioraLass wi' a Tocher. 287 



PAG^ 

Hey, the Dusty Miller., 21J 

Highland Mary 24a 

How Cruel are the Parents ! 285 

How Long and Dreary is tne Nighi ! 265 

Hunting Song 290 

I do Confess thou Art sae Fair. 237 

I Dream'd I Lay where Flowers were 

Springing i8g 

I hae a Wife o' my Ain 213 

I'll Aye Ca' in by Yon Town 27a 

I'm o'er Young to Marry Yet 218 

Is there, for Honest Poverty 278 

It is na, Jean, thy Bonny Face 141 

Jamie, Come Try me 228 

Jeanie's Bosom 260 

Jenny M'Craw 269 

Jessy 287 

Jockey's ta'en the Parting Kiss 262 

John Anderson, my Jo 223 

John Barleycorn 19a 

Katherine Jaffray 290 

Lady Mary Ann 247 

Lady Onhe 203 

Lament, Written at a Time when the Poet 

was about to leave Scotland 198 

Landlady, Count the Lawin 216 

Lassie wi' the Lint-White Locks 266 

Last May a Braw Wooer 285 

Let not Woman e'er Complain 266 

Lines on a Merry Ploughman 26*) 

Logan Braes 253 

Lord Gregory 250 

Lovely Davies 230 

Lovely Polly Stewart 260 

Luckless Fortune 196 

Macpherson's Farewell 208 

Mark Yonder Pomp 284 

M^'-y'---. • 200 

Mary Morison jq, 

Meg o' the Mill 277 

Meg o' the Mill 25a 

Menie jgg 

Montgomery's Peggy 193 

Musing on the Roarmg Ocean 209 

My Ain Kihd Dearie, 24a 

My Bonny Mary 214 

My Collier Laddie 248 

My Father was a Farmer 19a 

My Handsome Nell ,. 189 

My Harry was a Gallant Gay 223 

My Heart's in the Highlands 224 

My Heart was ance as Blithe and Free... 214 

My Hoggie 217 

My Jean ! 195 

My Lady's Gown, there's Gairs upon't... a6t 

My Lovely Nancy 222 

My Love she's but a. Lassie yet 229 

My Nannie, 190 

My Nannie's Awa' 233 

My Peggy's Face T... 2cy 

My Spouse, Nancy 258 

My Tocher's the Jewel 23^ 

My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing 24a 

Nithsdale's Welcome Hame 239 

Now Spring has Clad the Grove in Green. 28^ 



CONT^TS. 



}n 



Of a' the Airts the Wind can Blaw... 

Oh, Aye my Wife she Dane me 

Oh, Bonny was Yon Rosy Brier 

Oh, can ye Labour Lea. •••■•••• 

Oh for Ane-and-T wenty, Tam ! 

Oh, Guid Ale Comes. .. . . . . • 

Oh, how can I be Bhthe and Glad ? 

Oh, Kenmure's on and A wa' 

Oh, Lay thy Loof in Mine, Lass 

Oh! Luve will Venture in 

Oh, Mally's Meek, Mally's Sweet......... 

Oh, Merry hae I been Teething a Heckle. 

Oh, Saw ye my Dearie 

Oh, Steer Her Up 

Oh, that 1 had Ne'er been Married 

Oh, Wat ye Wha's in Yon Town? 

Oh, wat ye what My Minnie did? 

Oh, were I on Parnassus' Hill 

Oh, were my Love Yon Lilac fair 

Oh. Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast 

Oh, Whais She that Lo'es Me? 

Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, my 

Lad 

Oh, Willie Brew'd a Peck o' Maut 

O Lassie, art thou Sleeping yet ? 

On Cessnock Banks 

On Chloris being 111 

On the Seas and Far Awny. 

Open the Door to Me, oh ' 

O Philly , Happy be that Day 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the Day. 

Our Thrissles flourished Fresh and Fair. . 
Out Over the Forth 



2IO 

281 
284 
229 

237 

276 
236 
248 
262 
240 
262 
227 
245 
272 
289 
282 
276 
211 
25S 
287 
291 

255 
218 
279 
190 
283 
263 

25^ 

267 
I go 
226 
259 



Peggy 194 

Phillis the Fair 254 

Rattlin', Roarin' Willie 217 

Raving Winds around her Blowmg 209 

Robin 196 

Robin Shure in Hairst 290 

Sae Far Awa' 274 

Saw ye my Phely? 265 

Sic a Wife as Willie had 240 

Simmer's a Pleasant Time 230 

Shelah O'Neil 291 

She says she Lo'es Me best of a' 263 

She''s Fair and Fause 241 

Smiling Spring Comes m Rejoicing 241 

Song 20X 

Song, in the Character of a Ruined 

Farmer 201 

Stay, my Charmer 208 

Slrathallan's Lament 209 

Sweetest May 290 

Tam Glen 225 

The American War 203 

The Banks of Cree 262 

The Banks o' Doon 240 

The Banks of Doon 240 

The Banks of the Devon 207 

The Banks of Nith 225 

The Battle of Killiecrankie 228 

The Battle of Sheriff-Muir 223 

The Birks of Aberfeldy 204 

The Blue-Eyed Lassie 221 

The Bonny Banks of Ayr 203 

The Boaoy I.as§ 9f All?Jiny t- »»??».- ^'^^ 



The Bonny Wee Thing 231 

The Braes o' Ballochmyle i97 

The Captain's Lady 227 

The Cardin' o't 26^ 

The Carle of Kellyburn Braes 245 

The Carles of Dysart 278 

The Charming Month of May 266 

The Chevalier's Lament 210 

The Cooper o' Cuddie 275 

The Cure for all Care i95 

The Day Returns 212 

The Dean ot Faculty 286 

The Deil 's aw' wi' the Exciseman 234 

The Deuk's Dang o'er my Daddie, O 244 

The Discreet Hint 212 

The Dumfries Volunteers 282 

The Farewell • 27a 

The Fete Champetre 2" 

The Five Carlines 220 

The Gallant Weaver 241 

The Gowden Locks of Anna 270 

The Heron Election Ballads- 
Ballad 1 279 

Ballad U •••• 280 

Ballad HL— John Bushby's Lamenta- 
tion 281 

The Highland Laddie 274 

The Highland Lassie .)9 

The Highland Widow's Lament 275 

The Joyful Widower 20^ 

The Laddies by the Banks o' Nith 21^ 

The Lass of Ballochmyle 2ot 

TheLass of Ecclefechan 275 

The Lass that Made the Bed to me 27^ 

The Last Braw Bridal 2^ 

The Last Time 1 Came o'er the Moor 25^ 

The Lazy Mist 211 

The Lovely Lass of Inverness 25^ 

The Lover's Morning Salute to his Mis- 
tress 264 

The Mauchline Lady 197 

The Mirk Night o' December 233 

Theniel Menzie's Bonny Mary 215 

The Piper 269 

The Ploughman 216 

The Poor and Honest Sodger 251 

The Rantin' Dog the Daddie o't 197 

There'll never be Peace till Jamie Comes 

Hame • 230 

There's a Youth in this City 226 

There's News, Lasses, News 292 

There was a Bonny J..ass 276 

There was a Lass • 199 

There was a Lass, and She was Fair...... 254 

There was a Wife 29a 

The Rigs o' Barley 194 

The Ruined Maid's Lament 289 

The Slave's Lament 247 

The Sons ot Old Killie 201 

The Tailor 225 

The Tither Morn 244 

The Wearv Pund o' Tow 247 

The Winter is Past 218 

The Winter of Life 270 

The Young Highland Jlover 209 

This is no my Ain Lassie 28^ 

Thou hast Left Me Ever 2/6 

Tibbie Dunbar 37^ 

To Chloris 37I 

To Daunton Me A. 

To ^laryM.M»»Mt?t»M»«?'.»'»»Mn. ... msM 



S9 



COirrENTS. 



PAGE 

To Mary in Heaven 219 

Twas na her Bonny Blue Ee 285 

Up in the Morning Early 217 

Wae is my Heart 261 

Wandering Willie 233 

War Song • •- 231 

Weary Fa' You, Duncan Gray 215 

Wee Willie Gray.« 228 

Welcome to General Dumourier 252 

Wha is that at My Bower- Door ? 269 

What Can a Young Lassie Do ? 236 

When Clouds in Skies do Come together. 196 

When First I Saw Fair Jeanie's Face 221 

When I Think on the Happy Days 290 

When Rosy May Comes in wi' Flowers.. 222 
Whistle, and I'll Come to You, my Lad.. . 208 

Whistle o'er the Lave o't 228 

Will ye Go to the Indies, my Mary ? 200 

Wilt Thou be My Dearie ? 260 

Women's Minds 229 

Ye hae Lien Wrang, Lassie 226 

Ye Jacobites by Name 246 

Yon Wild Mossy Mountains 237 

Young Jamie, Pride of a' the Plain 277 

Young Jessie 251 

Young Jockey 227 

Young Peggy 197 

REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 

Absence 324 

Ah ! the Poor Shepherd's Mournful Fate.. 319 

Allan Water 306 

As I Cam Down by yon Castle Wa' 337 

A Southland Jenny 335 

Auld Lang Syne 334 

Auld Robin Gray 330 

Auld Rob Morris 325 

A Waukrife Minnie '333 

Bess the Gawkie 204 

Bide Ye Yet 314 

Blink o'er the Burn, Sweet Bettie 309 

Bob o' Dunblane 339 

Cauld Kail in Aberdeen 320 

Cease, Cease, my Dear Friend, to Ex- 
plore 330 

Clout the Caldron 296 

f!orn-Rigs are Bonny 314 

Cromlet's Lilt 311 

Dainty Davie , 338 

Donald and Flora 331 

Down the Burn, Davie -.08 

Dumbarton Drums 310 

Duncan Gray. 310 

Fairest of the Fair 302 

Fife, and a the Lands about it 017 

I For Lack of Gold 320 

H^ye, gae Rub her o'er wi" Strae 298 

Hen „ 

Herelloway Tarn „6 

Here'sMorice . o,.. ||6 

HerFlo¥4w©C. „...., I07 

Hey for a "* ^ 



PAGf 

Here's a Health to my True Love, &c. . . . 321 

He Stole my Tender Heart Away 30a 

Hey Tutti Taiti... 321 

Highland Laddie *. 301 

Hughie Graham 335 

I Had a Horse, and I Had nae mair 324 

I'll never Leave thee 314 

I wish my Love were in a Mire 305 

Jamie Gay 297 

John Hay s Bonny Lassie 309 

Johnnie's Gray Breeks 299 

Johnnie Faa, or the Gipsy Laddie 323 

Johnnie Cope 2^ 

John o' Badenyon 332 

Kirk wad Let me be 322 

Laddie, Lie Near Me 328 

Leader-Haughs and Yarrow 327 

Lewie Gordon 313 

Lord Ronald, my Son 337 

Love is the Cause of my Mourning 317 

Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow 308 

Mary's Dream 304 

May Eve, or Kate of Aberdeen 303 

Mill, Mill. 319 

My Ain Kind Dearie, 308 

My Dear Jockev 297 

My Dearie, if thou Die 314 

My Jo, Janet 316 

My Tocher's the Jewel 336 

Nancy's Ghost 325 

O'er the Moor amang the Heather 337 

Oh Ono Chrio 314 

Oh, Open the Door, Lord Gregory 294 

Polwart on the Green 3^5 

Roslin Castle 295 

Sae Merry as we Twa hae been 310 

Saw ye Johnnie Cummin ? quo' she 295 

Saw ye Nae my Peggy ? 296 

She Rose and Let me In 311 

Since Robb'd of all that Charm'd my 

View 322 

Strephon and Lydia 316 

Tak your Auld Cloak about ye 321 • 

Tarry Woo 306 

The Banks of Forth 310 

The Banks of the Tweed •. 294 

The Beds of Sweet Roses 295 

The Black Eagle 329 

The Blaithrie o't 302 

The Blithesome Bridal 309 

The Bonny Brucket Lassie 310 

The Bridal o't 331 

The Bush aboon Traquair 311 

The Captive Ribband 331 

The Collier's Bonny Lassie 307 

The Ewie wi' the Crooked Horn 334 

The Flowers of Edinburgh 297 

The Gaberlunzie Man 328 

Th« Gentle 3wa}a..««.i* .«i«iiMt'i « 303 



CONTENTS. 



PAGB 

The Happy Marriage 300 

The Highland Character 327 

The Highland Queen 293 

TheJ^assof Livingston 299 

The Lass of Patie's Mill 300 

The Last Time I Came o'er the Moor 299 

The Maid that Tends the Goats 305 

Then, Guidwife, Count the Lawin' 336 

The Posie 3^4 

There's Nae Luck about the House 306 

The Shepherd's Preference '. 332 

The Soger Laddie - . • . 336 

The Tears I Shed must ever Fall 338 

The Tears of Scotland 318 

The Turnimspike 301 

The Wauking o' the Fauld 314 

The Young Man's Dream 317 

This is no my Ain House 328 

To Daunton Me 324 

. Todlen Hame 332 

To the Rosebud 338 

P Tranent Muir 315 

i^ Tullochgorum 333 

Tune your Fiddles, &c 325 

Tweed-side 303 

Upand Warn a', Willie 325 

Waly, Waly 319 

Werena my Heart Light I wad Die 317 

When I upon thy Bosom Lean 326 

Where virad Bonny Annie Lie ? 336 

Will ye go to the JEwe-Bughts, Marion. . . 313 

Ye Gods, Was Strephon's Picture Blest ?. . 322 
Young Damon 322 

GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 

Introduction 225 

1781. 
Z. To William Burness, Dec. 27 342 

1783. 

II. To Mr. John Murdoch, Schoolmaster, 
London, Jan 15 343 

in. To Mr. James Burness, Writer, Mont- 
rose, June 21 044 

IV. To Miss Eliza 045 

V. Tothe Same 346 

■ VI. To the Same 047 

Vn. Tothe Same 3^8 

1784. 

VIII. To Mr. James Burness, Montrose, 
Feb. 17... 348 

IX. To Mr. James Burness, Montrose, 

X. tI Miss'-^'.!'.!'.".'.!!'.!;;*.'.'.;;;;;:;;;; Ill 



XI. To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburgh, 
Feb. 17 350 

XII. To Mr. John Kennedy, March -i aco 

XIII. To Mr. Robert Muir, Kilmarnock, 
March 20 ,-1 

XIV. To Mr. Aiken, April 3 051 

X.V. To Mr. M'Whinnie, Writer, Ayr, 

April 17 , 351 



PAGB 

XVI. To Mr, John Kennedy, April 20.... 351 

XVII. To Mr. John Kennedy, May 17.... 352 

XVIII. To John Ballantyne.of Ayr, June. 352 

XIX. To Mr. David Brice, June 12 352 

XX. To Mr. Robert Aiken, July 353 

XXI. To Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, July... 354 
XXIL To Mons. James Smith, Mauchline. 35^ 

XXIII. To John Richmond, Edinburgh, 
July 9 35J 

XXIV. To Mr. David Brice, Shoemaker, 
Glasgow, July 17 355 

XXV. To Mr. John Richmond, July 30... 356 

XXVI. To Mr. John Kennedy, Aug. ...... 356 

XXVII. To Mr. Robert Muir, Kilmarnock, 
Sept 356 

XXVIII. To Mr. Burness, Montrose, Sept. 357 

XXIX. To Dr. Archibald Lawrie, Nov. 13. 357 

XXX. To Miss Alexander, Nov. 18 358 

XXXI. To Mrs. Stewart of Stair, Nov.... 358 

XXXII. To Mr. Robert Muir, Nov. 18.... 359 

XXXIII. In the Name of the Nine 359 

XXXIV. To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline, 
Nov 360 

XXXV. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauch- 
hne, Dec 360 

XXXVI. To John Ballantyne, Esq., Bank- 
er, Ayr, Dec. 7 361 

XXXVII. To Mr. Robert Muir, Dec. 20.. 361 

XXXVIII. ToMr. Cleghorn 361 

XXXIX. To Mr. William Chalmers, 
Writer, Ayr, Dec. 27 363 

1787. 
XL. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauch- 

lme,Jan. 7 362 

XLI. Tothe Earl of Eglinton, Jan 363 

XLII, To John Ballantyne, Esq., Jan. 14. 363 

XLin. Tothe Same, Jan 364 

XLIV, To Mrs. Dunlop, Jan. 15 364 

XLV. To Dr. Moore, Jan 365 

XLVI. To the Rev. G. Lawrie, Newmills 

near Kilmarnock, Feb. 5 366 

XLVII. To Dr. Moore, Feb. 15 366 

XLVIII. To John Ballantyne, Esq., Feb. 

24 367 

XLIX. To the Earl of Glencairn, Feb... 367 

L. To the Earl of Buchan, Feb 368 

LI. To Gavin Hamilton, -Esq., March 8.. 368 
LII. To Mr. James Candlish, March 21.. 369 

LIIL To Mr. William Dunbar, March 360 

LIV. To ,March 370 

LV. To Mrs. Dunlop, March 22 371 

LVI. To the Same, April 15 373 

LVII. To Dr. Moore, April 23 373 

LVIII. To Mrs. Dunlop, April 30 374 

LIX. To James Johnson, Editor of the 

" Scots Musical Museum," May3 374 

LX. To the Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair, May 3. 374 
LXI. To William Creech, Esq., Edinburgh, 

May 13 375 

LXII. To Mr. Patison, Bookseller, Pais- 

ley,May 17 375 

LXIII. To Mr. W. Nicol, Master of the 

High School, Edinburgh, June i 375 

LXIV. To Mr. James Smith, at Miller and 

Smith's Office, Linlithgow, June 11 376 

LXV. To Mr. William Nicol, June 18... 376 

LXVI. To Mr. James Candlish 371 

LXVII. To William Nicel, Esq., June. ... 378 
LXVIII. To William Cruikshank, St. 

James's Square, Ediaburgh, June jol 



30 



CONTErmS. 



PAGE 

LXIX, To Robert Ainslie Esq., June.... 378 
LXX. To Mr. James Smith, at Linlith- 

fow, June 378 
XI. To the Same, June 379 

LXXII. To Mr. John Richmond, July 7.. 380 
LXXIII. To Robert Ainslie, Esq., July.. 380 

LXXIV. To Dr. Moore, Aug. 2 380 

LXXV. To Robert Ainslie, Jr., Aug. 23 381 
LXXVI, To Mr. Robert Muir, Aug... 26 .. 
^XXVII. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Aug. 

^28 382 

iXXVIII. To Mr. Walker Blaine, of 

Athole, Sept. 5 383 

JXXIX. To Mr. Gilbert Burns, Sept. 17. 383 
LXXX. To Miss Margaret Chalmers, 

Sept. a6 384 

LXXXI. To the Same 385 

LXXXII. To James Hoy, Esq., Castle 

Gordon, Oct. 20 385 

LXXXIII. To Rev. John Skinner, Oct. 25 386 
LXXXIV. To James Hoy, Esq., Nov. 6.. 387 

LXXXV. To Miss M n, Nov 388 

LXXXVI. To Miss Chalmers, Nov. 21.. . 388 
LXXXVII. To Mr. Robert Ainslie, Nov. 

23 389 

LXXXVni. To the Same 389 

LXXXIX. To James Dalrymple 389 

XC. To the Earl of Glencairn, Dec 390 

XCI. To Miss Chalmers, Dec. 12 391 

XCn. To the Same, Dec. 19 39I 

XCIII. To Charles Hay, Esq., Dec 391 

XCIV. To Sir John Whitefoord, Dec.T. 392 

XCV. To Miss Williams, Dec :. 393 

XCVI. To Mr. Itichard Brown Irvine, 

Dec. 30 r. . . . 394 

XCVII. To Gavin Hamilton 395 

XCVIII. To Miss Chalmers 395 



1788. 

XCIX. To Mrs. Dunlap, Jan. 21 396 

C. To the Same, Feb. 12...:.... 397 

CI. To Rev. John Skinner, Feb. 14 397 

CII. To Richard Brown, Feb. 15 397 

cm. To Miss Chalmers, Feb. 15 398 

CIV. To the Same 398 

CV. To Mrs. Rose of Kilravock, Feb. 

r? 398 

CVl. To Richard Brown, Feb. 24 399 

CVII. To 400 

CVIII. To Mr. William Cruikshank, 

March 3 400 

CIX. To Robert Ainslie, Esq., March 3... 401 

ex. To Richard Brown, March 7 401 

CXI. To Mr. Muir, Kilmarnock, March 7 401 

CXII. To Mrs. Dunlop, March 17 402 

CXIII. To Miss Chalmers, March 14 402 

CXIV. To Richard Brown, March 26 403 

CXV. To Mr. Robert Cleghorn, March 31 403 
CXVI. To Mr. William Dunbar, April 7.. 404 

CXVII. To Miss Chalmers, April 7 404 

CXVIII. To Mrs. Dunlop, April 28 405 

CXIX. To Mr. James Smith, Linlithgow, 

April 28 405 

CXX. To Dugald Stewart, May 3 406 

CXXI, To Mrs. Dunlop, May 4 406 

CXXII. To Mr. Robert Ainslie, May 26.. 407 

CXXIII. To Mrs. Dunlop, May 27 407 

CXXIV. To the Same, June 13 407 

CXXV. To Mr. Robert Ainslie, June 14.. 408 

CXX VI. To the Same, June 25 409 

PXXVII. To the Same, June 30 409 



PAGB 

CXXVIII. To Mr. George Lockhart,Glas- 

fow, July 18 410 
XIX. To Mr Peter Hih 410 

CXXX. To Robert Graham, Esq ^ 412 

CXXXI. To William Cruikshank, Aug.. 413 

CXXXII. ToMrs Dunlop, Aug 2 413 

CXXXIII. To the Same, Aug 10 413 

CXXXIV. To the Same, Aug 16 414 

CXXXV. To Mr Beugo, Edinburgh, 

Sept 9 ... 415 

CXXXVI. To Miss Chalmers, Sept 16... 416 
CXXXVII. To Mr. Morrison, Sept. 22 .. 418 
CXXXVIII. To Mrs. Dunlop, Sept. 27... 418 
CXXXIX. To Mr Peter Hill, Oct. i. - .. 419 
CXL. To the Editor of The Star, Nov. 8. 420 

CXLI. ToMrs. Dunlop, Nov. 13 421 

CXLII. To Mr. James Johnson, Nov. 15 , 422 

CXLIII. To Dr. Blacklock, Nov. 15 423 

CXLIV. To Mrs. Dunlop, Dec. 17 423 

CXLV. To Miss Davies, Dec 423 

CXLVI. To Mr. John Tennant, Dec. 22.. 424 

1789. 

CXLVII. To Mrs. Dunlop, Jan. i 424 

CXLVIII, To Dr. Moore, Jan. 4 425 

CXLIX. To Mr. Robert Ainslie, Jan. 6.. 426 
CL. To Professor Dugald Stewart, Jan 20 427 

CLI. To Bishop Geddes, Feb. 3 428 

CLII. To Mr. James Burness, Feb. 9 428 

CLIII. To Mrs. Dunlop, March 4 429 

CLIV. To Rev. P. Carfrae, March 4 430 

CLV. To Dr Moore, March 23 431 

CLVI. To William Burns, March 25 432 

CLVIl. To Mr Hill, April 2 '. 432 

CLVIII. To Mrs Dunlop, April 4 433 

CLIX. ToMrs M'Murdo, May 2 433 

CLX. To Mr Cunningham, May 4 433 

CLXI. To Samuel Brown, May 4 434 

CLXIII. To Richard Brown, May 21 434 

CLXIII. To James Hamilton, May 26 ... 435 
CLXIV. To William Creech, May 30 ... . 435 
CLXV. To Mr Macaulay, of Dum- 
barton, June 4 435 

CLXVI. To Robert Ainslie, June 8 436 

CLXVII. To Mr M'Murdo, June 19 436 

CLXVIII. To^Mrs. Dunlop, June 21 437 

CLXIX. To Miss Williams, Aug ........ 438 

CLXX. To Mr. John Logan, Aug 7 394 

CLXXI. To Mr , Sept 

CLXXII. ToMrs Dunlop, Sept 6 440 

CLXXin. To Captain Riddel, Oct 16.... 441 

CLXXIV. To the Same 442 

CLXXV. To Robert Ainslie, Nov. i 442 

CLXXVI. To Richard Brown, Nov. 4. . . . 443 

CLXXVII. To R. Graham, Dec. 9 443 

CLXXVIII. To Mrs. Dunlop, Dec. 13.... 444 
CLXXIX. To Lady W. M. Constable, 

Dec. 16 445 

CLXXX. To Provost Maxwell, Dec. 20. . 446 



1790. 

CLXXXI. To Sir John Sinclair 447 

CLXXXII. To Charles Sharpe, Esq., of 

Hoddam 448 

CLXXXIII. To Gilbert Burns, Jan. II.... 449 
CLXXXIV. To William Dunbar, Jan. 14. 449 
CLXXXV. To Mrs. Dunlop, Jan. 25... . 450 
CLXXXVI. To Peter Hill, Edinburgh^ 

Feb. 2...... 451 

CLXXXVII. ToW. Nicol, Feb. 9...-,... -^53 



CONTENTS. 



31 



PAGE 

CLXXXVITI. To Mr. Cunningham, Feb. 

13 453 

CLXXXIX. To Mr. Hill, March 2. .0.,.. 454 
CXC. To Mrs. Dunlop, April 10.....0.. . 455 

CXCI. To Collector Mitchell 456 

CXCII. To Dr. Moore, July 14 457 

CXCIII. To Mn Murdoch, July 16 457 

CXCIV. To Mr. M'Murdo, Aug. 2 458 

CXCV To Mrs. Dunlop, Aug. 8 . . . 458 

CXCVL To Mr. Cunningham, Aug. 8.... 458 

CXCVII. To Dr. Anderson 459 

CXCVIII. To Crawford Tait, Oct. 15- ... 459 

CXCIX. To 460 

CC. To Mrs. Dunlop, Nov 461 

1791. 

CCI. To Lady W. M. Constable, Jan. 11. 461 

CCII. To William Dunbar, Jan. 17 461 

CCIII. To Mrs. Graham, Jan 462 

CCIV. To Peter Hill, Jan. 17 463 

CCV. To Alex. Cunningham, Jan. 23 463 

CCVI. To A. F. Tytler, Feb 463 

CCVn. To M/:s. Dunlop, Feb. 7 464 

CCVni. To Rev. Arch. Alison, Feb. 14.. 464 

CCIX. To Rev. G. Baird, Feb 465 

CCX. To Dr. Moore, Feb. 28 465 

CCXI. To Alex. Cunningham, March 12.. 467 
CCXII. To Alexander Dalzel, March 19.. 467 

CCXni. To , March 468 

CCXIV. To Mrs. Dunlop, April n 468 

CCXV. To Alex. Cunningham, June 11.. 469 
CCXVI. To the Earl of Buchan, June — 470 

CCXVn. To Thomas Sloan, Sept. i 470 

CCXVin. To Lady E. Cunningham, 

Sept. 1 471 

CCXIX. To Col. Fullarton of Fullarton, 

Oct. 3 471 

CCXX. ToMr. Ainslie 471 

CCXXI. To Miss Davies 472 

CCXXIL To Mrs. Dunlop, Dec. 17 473 

1792. 

CCXXIII. To William Smellie, Printer, 

Jan. 22 • 474 

CCXXI V. To Peter Hill, Feb. 5 475 

CCXXV. To W. Nicol, Feb. 20 475 

CCXXVL To Francis Grose 476 

CCXXVn. To the Same 476 

CCXXVHL To J. Clarke, Edinburgh, 

July 16 478 

CCXXIX. To Mrs. Dunlop, Aug. 22. . . . 478 
CCXXX. To Mr. Cunningham, Sept. 10.. 479 
CCXXXL To Mrs. Dunlop. Sept. 24... . 481 

CCXXXn. To the Same, Sept 482 

CCXXXni. To Captain Johnston, Editor 

of the Edinburgh Gazetteer^ Nov. 13 482 

CCXXXIV. To Mrs. Dunlop, Dec. 6 483 

CCXXXV. To R. Graham, Esq., Dec. 6.. 484 
CCXXXVL To Mrs. Dunlop, Dec. 3X.... 484 



1793- 

CCXXXVn. To Mrs. Dunlop, Jan. 5 485 

CCXXXVin. To Mr. Cunningham, 

March 3 486 

CCXXXIX. To Miss Benson, March 21.. 487 
CCXL. To Patrick Miller, April 487 



PAGB 

CCXLI. To John Francis Erskine, Esq., 

of Mar, April 13 487 

CCXLIL To Mr. Robert Ainslie, April 26. 489 

CCXLHL To Miss Kennedy 490 

CCXLIV. To Miss Craik, Aug 49a 

CCXLV. To Lady Glencairn 491 

CCXLVI. To John M'Murdo, Esq., Dec. 492 

CCXLVn. To the Same 493 

CCXLVHL To Captain 493 

CCXLIX. To Mrs. Riddel 493. 

1794. 

CCL. To a Lady 494 

CCLI. To the Earl of Buchan 494 

CCLH. To Captain Miller 494 

CCLIIL To Mrs. Riddel 495 

CCLIV. TotheSame 495 

CCLV. TotheSame 495 

CCLVL TotheSame 496 

CCLVn. TotheSame 496 

CCLVHL To John Syme, Esq 496 

CCLIX. To Miss 497 

CCLX. To Mr. Cunningham, Feb. 26.... 497 
CCLXL To the Earl of Glencairn, May.. 498 
CCLXn. To David MaccuUoch, Esq., 

June 21 499 

CCLXHL To Mrs. Dunlop. June 25 499 

CCLXIV. To Mr. James Johnson 500 

CCLXV. To Peter Miller, Jun., Esq., 

Nov 500 

CCLXVL To Samuel Clarke, Jun 501 

1795- 

CCLXVn. To Mrs. Riddel 501 

CCLXVHL TotheSame 502 

CCLXIX. To Miss Fontenelle 502 

CCLXX. To Mrs. Dunlop, Dec. 15 503 

CCLXXL To Alexander Findlater 504 

CCLXXn. To the Editor of the Morning 

Chronicle 504 

CCLXXIIL To Col. W. Dunbar 505 

CCLXXIV. ToMr. Heron 505 

CCLXXV. To Mrs. Dvuiop, Dec. 20 506 

CCLXXVL Address of the Scotch Dis- 
tillers 507 

CCLXXVn. To the Hon. The Provost, 
Bailies and Town Council of Dumfries. 50$ 

1796. 

CCLXXVin. To Mrs. Riddel, Jan. 20... 509 

CCLXXIX. To Mrs. Dunlop, Jan. 31 509 

CCLXXX. To Mrs. Riddel, June 4 509 

CCLXXXL To Mr. Clarke, Forfar., June 

26 , 510 

CCLXXXn. To James Johnson, July 4.. 510 
CCLXXniX. To Mr.Cunningham, July 7 511 

CCLXXXIV. To Gilbert Burns 511 

CCLXXXV. To Mrs. Burns 512 

CCLXXXVL To Mrs. Dunlop, July 12. . 512 
CCLXXXVH. To James Burness, July 12. 512 
CCLXXXVIIL To James Gracie, July 16. 513 
CCLXXXIX. To James Armour July 18. 513 
Correspondence of Burns with George 

Thomson 514 

Prefatory Note . 561 

Letters to Clarinda 56^ 

Commonplace Book 579 



1*HE 



POETICAL WORKS 

OK 

ROBERT BURNS. 



TRAGIC FRAGMENT. 

The followin}:^ lines are thus introduced by- 
Burns in one of his manuscripts, printed in 
*• Cromek's Reliques :"— " In my early years 
nothing less would serve me than courting 
the tragic muse. I was, I thmk, about 
eighteen or nmeteen when I sketched the 
outlines of a tragedy, forsooth; but the 
bursting of a cloud of family misfortunes, 
which had for some time threatened us, 
prevented my further progress. In those 
days I never wroie down anything; so,ex- 
cept a speech or two, the whole has es- 
caped my memory. The above, which I 
most distinctly remember, was an exclama- 
tion from a great character— great m occa- 
sional instances of generosity, and daring at 
times m villanies. He is supposed to meet 
with a child of misery, and exclaims to him- 
self, as in the words of the fragment" : — 

All devil as I am, a damned wretch, 

A harden'd, .stubborn, unrepenting vil- 
lain, 

Still my heart melts at liuman wretch- 
edness ; 

And with sincere, though unavailing 
sighs, 

jL view the helpless children of distress. 

With tears indignant I behold the op- 
pressor [tion, 

Rejoicing in the honest man's destruc- 

Whose unsubmitting heart was all his 
crime. 

Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you; 

Ye, whom the seeming good think sin 
to pity ; [bonds, 

Ye poor, despised, abandon'd vaga- 

Wliom vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er 



—Oh, but for kind, though ill-requiE. 

ed, friends, [lorUj 

I had been driven forth like you "for- 

The most detested, worthless wretch 

among you ! 
injured God ! Thy goodness has en- 
dow'd me [peers. 

With talents passing most of my com- 
Which I in just proportion have abused 
As far surpassing other common vil- 
lains, 
As Thou in natural parts hadst given 
me more. 



THE TORBOLTON LASSES. 

The two following poems, written at difEer^pt 
times, give a list of the eligible damsels iQ 
the poet's neighborhood :— 

If ye gae up to yon hill-tap, 
Ye'll there see bonny Peggy, 

She kens her faither is a laird. 
And she forsooth's a leddy. 

There Sophy tight, a lassie bright. 

Besides a handsome fortune : 
Wha canna win her in a night. 

Has little art in courting. 

Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale, 

And tak a look o' Mysie ; 
Slie's dour^ and din, a deil within, 

But aiblins'^ she may please ye. 



> CbstinsLte. 



PerhapSf 



Sd 



BURNS* WORKS. 



If slie be sliy, her sister try, 

"i'e'U maybe fancy Jeuuy, 
\f yell dispense wi' want o' sense — 

She kens iiersel slie's bonny. 
As ye gae up by yon hillside, 

Speer' in lor bonny Bessy; 
She'll gie ye a beck,'' and bid ye licht, 

And handsomely address ye. 
There's few sae bonnie, nane sae guid, 

In a' King (xeorge' Dominion ; 
If ye should doubt the truth o' this — 

It's Bessy's aiu opinion. 

In Torbolton, ye ken, there are proper 

young men, 

And proper young lassies and a', man; 

But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the 

Bennals, [man. 

They carry the gree^ frae them a', 

Their father's a laird, and weel he can 

spare 't, [man, 

Braid money to tocher* them a'. 

To proper young men, he'll clink in the 

hand 

Gow d guineas a hunder or twa, man. 

There's ane they ca' Jean, I'll warrant 

ye've seen 

As bonny a lass or as braw, mtin; 

But for sense and guid taste she'll vie 

wi' the best, [man. 

And a conduct that beautifies a'. 

The charms o' the min', they langer 

' they shine, [man; 

The mair admiration they draw, 

^'''Tiile peaches and cherries, and roses 

and lilies, 

fhey fade and they wither awa, man. 

If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a 
frien', 
A hint o* a rival or twa, man, 
The Laird o' Blackbyre wad gang 
through the fire, 
If that wad entice her awa, man. 

The Laird o' Braehead has been on his 

speed, [man ; 

For mair than a towmond^ or twa. 

The Laird o' the Ford will straught on 

a board, ^ 

If he canna get her at a', man. 



» Ask or call. ^ Bow. 3 Palm. * Portion. 
* Twelvemo::Ul. * Die and be stretched on 
Aboard. 



Then Anna comes in, the pride o' he? 
kin, 
The boast of our bachelors a' , man 
Sae sonsy ^ and sweet, sae fully com 
plete. 
She steals our affections awa, man. 

If I should detail the pick and tht 

wale^ 

O' lasses, that live here awa, man, 

The fault wad be mine, if they didnt 

shine, [man 

The sweetest and best o' them a' 

I lo'e her>mysel, but darena weel tell, 
My poverty keeps me in awe, man, 

For making o' rhymes, and worlcing at 
times. 
Does little or naething at a', man. 

Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse, 
Nor hae't in her power to say na, 
man; [scuio 

For though I be poor, unnoticed, ob- 
My stomach's as proud as them a', 



TLo- jh I canna ride in weol bor>+ed 

pride, [aian. 

And flee o'er the hills like a craw, 

I can hand up my head with the best o' 

the breed, 

Though fluttering ever so braw, man. 

My coat and my vest, they are Scotch 

o' the best, jman, 

O' pairs o' guid breeks I hae twa. 

And stockings and pumps to put on my 

stumps, [man. 

And ne'er a wrang steek in them a', 

My sarks^ they are few, but five o' 
them new, [man, 

Twal' hundred,"^ as white as the snaw, 
A ten-shilling hat, a Holland cravat- 
There are no mony poets sae braWj, 
man. 

I never had frien's weel stockit ia 

means, 

To leave me a hundred or twa, man; 

Nae weel-tocher'd aunts, to wait on 

their drants," 

And wish them in hell for it a', man, 

7 Comely. ^ Choice. 
9 Shirts. " A kind of cloth. " Humoi* 



POEMS. 



35 



r never was cannie'^ for hoarding o' 

money. 

Or claughtin't'^ together at a', man, 

I've little to spend, and naetliing to 

lend. 

But deevil a shilling"* I awe, man. 



WINTER. 

A DIRGE. 

Winter* a Dirge," was copied into Burns's 
Commonplace Book in April, 1784, and pre- 
faced with the following reflections : — ' As 
I am what the men of the world, if they 
knew such a man, would call a whimsical 
mortal, I have various sources of pleasure 
and enjoyment, which are in a manner 
peculiar to myself, or some here and there 
such out-of-the-way person. Such is the 
peculiar pleasure I take in the season of 
Winter more than the rest of the year. This, 
I believe, may be partly owing to my mis- 
fortunes giving my mind a melancholy cast ; 
but there is something even in the 

' Mighty tempest, and the heavy waste, 
Abrupt, and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried 
earth,' 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity 
favorable to everything great and noble. 
There is scarcely any earthly objec*; gives 
me more — I do not know if I should call it 
pleasure — but something which exalts me — 
something which enraptu/es me— than to 
walk in the sheltered side of a wood, or high 
plantation, in a cloudy winter-day, and 
hear the stormy wind howling among the 
trees and raving over the plain. It is my 
best season for devotion : my mind is wrapt 
up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him, who, in 
the pompous language of the Hebrew bard, 
'walks on the wings of the wind.' In one 
of these seasons, just after a train of misfor- 
tunes, I composed the following :"— 

The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw; [forth 
Or, the stormy north sends driving 

The blinding sleet and snaw: [down, 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes 

And roars frae bank to brae; 
And bird and beast in covert rest, 

And pass the heartless day. 

"*The sweeping blast, the sky o'er- 
cast,"* 

The joyless winter-day, 
I^et others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May: 

••Qu-eful. 13 Gathering greedily. "Owe. 
f pv. Young. 



The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join; 
The leafless trees my fancy please. 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

Thou Power Supreme, whose might/ 
scheme 

Those woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best. 

Because they are Thy will I 
Then all I want (oh, do Thou grant 

This one request of mine I) 
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny. 

Assist me to resign. 



A PRAYER, 

UNDER THE PRESSURE OP VIOLEUT 
ANGUISH. 

In the Commonplace Book already alluded to 
the following melancholy note accompanies 
this Poem : — " There was a certain period 
of my life that my spirit was broken by re- 
peated losses and disasters, which threat- 
ened, and indeed effected, the utter ruin of 
my fortune. My body, too, was attacked by 
that most dreadful distemper, a hypochon- 
dria, or confirmed melancholy. In this 
wretched state, the recollection of which 
makes me yet shudder, I hung my harp on 
the willow trees, except in some lucid mter- 
vals, in one of which I composed this 
Prayer:" — 

O Thou great Being ! what Thou art 

Surpasses me to know: 
Yet sure I am, that known to Thee 

Are all Thy works below. 
Thy creature here before Thee stands, 

All wretched and distrest; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. 
Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
Oh, free my weary eyes from tears. 

Or close them fast in death 1 
But if I must afflicted be. 

To suit some wise design; 
Then man my soul with firm resolvei^ 

To bear and not repine ! 



THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS 
OF POOR MAILIE. 

THE author's only PET YOWBS. 

{An Unco Mournfu' Tale.) 
As Mailie and her lambs thegither 
Was ae day nibbling- on the teth«r. 



5C 



BURNS' WORKS. 



CTpon lier cloot she coost a hitch, 
And owre she warsled' in the ditch; 
There, groaning, djing, she did lie, 
Wlien Hughoc he cam doytin'^ by, 
Wi' glowring een, and lifted han's. 
Poor Hughoc like a statue Stan's; [ed, 
He saw her days were near-hand end- 
But, waes my heart! he couldua mend 

it! 
He gaped wide, but naething spak — 
A.t length poor Mailie silence brak: — 

" thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case! 
My dying words attentive hear. 
And bear them to my master dear. 
Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
Oh, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair! 
But ca' them out to park or hill, 
And let them wander at their will; 
So may his flock increase, and grow 
To scores o' lambs, and packs o' woo'! 

" Tell him he was a master kin'. 
And aye was guid to me and mine; 
And now my dying charge I gie him — 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 

" Oh, bid him save their harmless 
lives [knives! 

Frae^ dogs, and tods, and butchers' 
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel; 
And tent them duly, e'en and morn 
Wi' teats o' hay, and ripps o' corn, 

"And may they never learn the 
gaets^ 
Of ither vile, wanrestfu'^ pets! [steal 
To slink through slaps, and reave and 
At stacks o' peas or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears, 
For mony a year come through the 

shears; 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread. 
And bairns greef* for them when 
they're dead. [heir, 

"My poor toop-lamb, my son and 
Oh, bid him breed him up wi' care! 
And if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some bavins'' in his breast! 
And warn him, what I winna name. 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame; 
And no to rin and wear his clouts,* 

1 Struggled. = Walking Stupidly. ^ From. 

•Hat)its. 6 Restless. eWeep. » Good sense. 

* Clouts, clothes or rags, with reference to 



Like ither menseless,^ graceless bruteaL 

" And neist my yowie, silly thing, 
Guid keep the frae a tether stringl 
Oh, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit,f moorland toop, 
But aye keep mind to moop and mellj 
W^i' sheep o' credit like thysel! 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last 
breath 
I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith: , 

And when you think upo' your mither ' 
Mind to be Icin' to ane anither. 

"Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail 
To tell my master a' my tale; 
And bid him burn this cursed tether. 
And, for thy pains, thou's get my 

blether. "9 
This said, poor Mailie turned her head. 
And closed her een amang the dead. 

THE ELEGY. 
IjAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down youf 

nose: 
Our bardie's fate is at a close. 

Past a' remead; 
The last sad cape-stane of his woes; 

Poor Mailie's dead! 
It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear. 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed; 
He's lost a friend and neibor dear 

In Mailie dead. 
Through a' the toun* she trotted by 

him; 
A lang half-mile she could descry himi 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy 
him 

She ran wi* speed: 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh 
him 

Than Mailie dead. 
I wat she was a sheep o' sense. 
And could behave hersel wi' mense:" 



8 Senseless. » Bladder. *" Decorum, 
a piece of clothing with which rams are cum- 
bered at certain seasons, for a purpose which 
will hardly bear full explanation. Mr. Smith, 
in his recent edition of the poet's works* 
misled by the usual spelling of th« -worA-cloois. 
which means hoofs or feet, and being appar- 
ently ignorant of this custom, robs the /\llusiof 
of ail its broad humor. 

t A contemptuous term, 

* Round the fano, 



POEMS. 



m 



I'll say't, she never brak a fence 

Through thievish greed. 

Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spencef 
Sin Mailie's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up th^ liowe," 
Her living image in \"'i yowe 
Comes bleatinp- ^ him, owre the 
knowe,'"^ 

For bits o' bread; 
And down the briny pearls rowe 
For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
Wi' tawted ket,'^ and hairy hips; 
For her forbears were brought in ships 

Frae yont the Tweed: 
A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie dead. ^^^^^^ 

Wae worth the man wha first did 
That vile, wanchancie'"' thing — a rape! 
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape,:}: 

Wi' chokin' dread; 
And Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape. 

For Mailie dead. 

Oh, a' ye bards on bonny Doon! 
And wha on Ayr your chanters tune ! 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

O' Robins reed! 
His heart will never get aboon 

His Mailie dead. 



O WHY THE DEUCE SHOULD I 
REPINE. 

The following is said to have been written 
extempore. :— 

WHY the done? should I repine, 
And be an ill foreboder? 

I'm twenty -three, and five feet nine — 
I'll go and be a sodger. 

1 gat some gear vri meikle care, 

I held it weel theglther; [mair — 
But now it's gane, and something 
I'll go and be a sodg-er. 



THE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE. 

In Mauchline there dwells six proper 

young belles, [bourhood a' ; 

The pride o' the place and its neigh- 



11 Dell. »2 Knoll. >3 Matted fleece. "Unlucky. 

t Shuts himself up in the parlor with his 
•orrow. 

$ Grin aiod gaep— an allusion to hanging. 



Their carriage and dress, a strangei 
would guess. 
In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a' 

Miss Miller is fine. Miss Markhani'j 

divine, [Betty is braw. 

Miss Smith she has wit, and Mi-s 

There's beauty and fortune to get wi 

Miss Morton, [them a'. 

But Armour's the jewel for me g 



A PRAYER 

IN THE PROSPECT OP DEATH. 

" This ' Prayer ' and the ' Stanzas,' which fol 
low," the poet wrote in his Commonpla-of' 
Book, '' were composed when fainting fits, 
and other alarming symptoms of pleurisy 
or some other dangerous disorder, whick 
indeed still threatens me, first put nature 
on the alarm. The stanzas are misgivings 
in the hour of despondency and prospect oj 
death. The grand end of human life is to 
cultivate an mtercourse with that Being tvi 
whom we owe life with every enjoymen 
that renders life delightful." 

Thou unknown. Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear, 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour. 

Perhaps I must appear! 
If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to sliun ; 
As something, loudly, in my breast. 

Remonstrates I have done; 
Thou know'st that thou hast form'd 
me 

With passsions wild and strong; 
And listening to their witching voice 

Has often led me wrong. 
Where human weakness has coma 
short. 

Or frailty stept rside, 
Do Thou, All -good ! for such Thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 
Where with intention I have err'd. 

No other plea I have. 
But, Thou art good; and goodness stilj 

Delighteth to forgive. 



STANZAS. 

ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly 

scene? [charm^ 

Have I so found it full of pleasing 

Some drops of joy with draughts of il] 

between; [uewing storms 

Some gleams of suushine 'mi^ re 



BURNS' WORKa 



Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? 
Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark 
abode? [arms; 

For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in 
I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath His sin- 
avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul 
offence!" 
Fain promise never more to disobey; 
But should my Author health again 

dispense. 
Again I might desert fair Virtue's way; 
Again in folly's path might go astray; 
Again exalt the brute and sink the 
man; [pray. 

Then how should I for heavenly mercy 
Who act so counter heavenly mer- 
cy's plan? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to 
temptation ran. 

O Thou great Governor of all below! 
If I may dare a lifte'* eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease 
to blow. 
Or still the tumult of the raging sea; 
With that controlling power assist 
even me, [confine. 

Those headlong furious passions to 
For all unfit I feel my powers to be, 
To rule their torrent in the allow'd 
line: [tence Divine. 

Oh, aid me with Thy help, Omnipo- 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

The man, in life wherever placed, 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way. 

Nor learns their guilty lore. 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad. 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees, 
Which by the streamlets grow; 

The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt, 
Shall to the ground be cast, 

Imd, like the rootless stw.bble lost 
Before the sweeping blast. 



For why? that God the good adore. 
Hath given them peace and rest. 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THl 

NINETIETH PSALM. 
O Tnou, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever bee^ 

Their stay and dwelling-place! 

Before the mountains heaved theij 
heads 

Beneath Thy forming hand. 
Before this ponderous globe itself. 

Arose at Thy command; 

That power which raised and still uj» 
holds 

This universal frame. 
From countless unbeginning time 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast. 
Appear no more before Thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou givest the word; Thy creature^ 
man. 

Is to existence brought. 
Again Thou say'st, " Ye sons of men 

Return ye into nought!' 

Thou layest them with all their cares. 

In everlasting sleep; 
As with a flood Thou takest them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flower^ 
In beauty's pride array'd; . 

But long ere night cut down, it lies 
All wither'd and decay'd. 

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROB 

ERT RUISSEAUX. 

This fragment was found by Cromek among 
the poet's manuscripts. Ruisseaux— a tran». 
lation of his own name— is French fol 
rivulets. 

Now Robin lies in his last lair. 

He'll gabble rhyme nor sing nae maii; 

Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him; 
Nor an?ious fear, nor cankert care, 

E'«?r mair come near Itivk 



POEMS. 



Sf 



To tell the truth, they seldom fasbt him, 

Except the moment that they crusht 

him: ['em, 

I'or sune as chance or fate had liusht 

Though e'er sae short, 
then wi' a rhyme or song lie lasht 'em, 
And thought it sport. 

Though he was bred to kintra wark, 
And counted was baith wight and stark, 
Yet that it was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell him he was learn'd and dark. 

Ye roosed him than ! 



>UUCHLINE BELLES. 

0^ .eave novels, ye Mauchline belles ! 

Ye'er safer at your spinning wheel ; 
Such witching books are baited hooks 

For rakish rooks like Rob JMossgiel.* 

Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 

They make your youthful fancies 

reel ; [brains. 

They heat your veins, and fire your 

[giel. 

And then ye're prey for Rob Moss- 
Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung, 

A heart that warmly seems to feel ; 
That feeling heart but acts a part — 

'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 

The frank address, the soft caress. 
Are worse than poison'd hearts of 
steel; 

The frank address and politesse 
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 



I DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE STORY. 

"Death and Dr. Hornbook," says Gilbert 
Burns, " though not pubUshed in the Kil- 
marnock edition, was prbduced early in the 
year 1785. The schoolmaster of Torbolton 
parish, to eke out the scanty subsistence 
allowed to that useful class of men, set up a 
shop of grocery goods. Having accident- 
ally fallen in with some medical books, and 
become most hobby-horsically attached to 
the study of medicine, he had added the sale 
of a few medicines to his little trade. He 
had got a shop-bill printed, at the bottom of 
which, overlooking his own incapacity, he 
had advertised that advice would be given 
in common disorders, at the shop gratis! 

^ •Rob MossgieJ— Robert Burns of Mossgiel. 



Robert was at a mason-meeting iu Torbol- 
ton, when the domuiie made too ostenia. 
tious a display of his medical skill. As he 
parted in the evening from this mixture of 
pedantry and physic at the place where he de. 
scribes his meeting with Death, one of thost 
floating ideas of apparitions mentioned in 
his letter to Dr. Moore crossed his mind ; 
this set him to work for the rest of his way 
home. These circumstances he related when 
he repeated the verses to me the next after- 
noon, as I was holding the plough, and ho 
was letting the water off the field beside 
me." 
The mirth and amusement occasioned by the 
publication of the poem drove the schtol» 
master out of the district, and he becan?e 
session-clerk of the Gorbals parish, Glas- 
gow, and died there in 1839. 

Some books are lies f ra end to end 
And some great lies were never penn'd 
E'en ministers, they hae been kenn'd. 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing wliid* at times to vend, 

And nail't wi' Scriptura 

But this that I am gaun^ to tell, 
Which lately on a night befell, 
Is just as true's the deil's in hell 

Or Dublin city: 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel 

'S a muckle pity. 

The clachan yilP had made me canty. 
I wasna fou, but just had plenty; [ay« 
I stacher'd* whiles,^ but yet took tent 

To free the ditches; [aye 
And hillocks, stanes and bushes kenn'd 

Frae ghaists and witches. 

The rising moon began to glower^ 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre; 
To count her horns, wi' a' my power, 

I set mysel; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I couldna tell. 

I was come round about the hill, 
And todlin''' down on Willie's mill,* 
Setting my stafE wi' a' my skill. 

To keep me sicker:^ [will 
Though leeward whiles, against my 

I took a bicker.* 

I there wi' something did forgather, 
That put me in an eerie swither;'" 

. _< 

' Lie. 2. Going. 3 Village ale. ■* Staggered 

^ Sometimes. « Stare. ' Tottering. *• Steady 

» Short race. " An uncertain fear. 
* Torbolton Mill, then occupied by Williaj* 

Muir, an intimate friend of the Bum* tamUf 

—hence called IVilli^s mill. 



<0 



CORNS WORKS. 



An awf u' scytlie, out-owre ae slioutlier, 
Clear-dangling, hang; 

A. three-taedliester^^ on the ither 
Lay large and laug. 

tts stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For fient a wame''^ it had av^a; 

And then its shanks, 
Thej were as thin, as sharp and sma'. 

As cheeks o' branks.* 

** Guid-een," quo' I; "friend, hae ye 

been maw-in' , 
When ither folk are busy sawin'?"f 
It seemed to mak a kind o' stan', 
but naething spak; 
Ax length, says I, ' ' Friend, whare ye 
gaun? ' 

Will ye go back ?" 

It spak right ho we, ^^ — "My name is 
Death; [faith, 

But be na lley'd,"'4_Quoth I, " Guid 
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath; 

But tent me, billie; 
I red^^ ye weel, take care o' skaith,'^ 

See, there's a gully l"^' 

'Suid man," quo' he, " put up your 

whittle, 
I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle"* 

To be mislear'd,^' 
I wad na mind it, no that spittle 

Out-owre my beard. " -^ 

'* Weel, weel !" says I, " a bargain be't; 
Come, gies your hand, and sae we're 

gree't; 
We'll ease our shanks"^'' and tak a seat — 

Come, gies your news; 
This while X ye liae been mony a gate,^^ 

At mony a house." 

'*Ay, ay, !" quo' he, and shook his 

head, 
" It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 



' ' A fishspear. 
« Belly. "Hollow. "Frightened, is Warn. 
-• Harm. »'' Clasp-knife. i« I might be tempted. 
• Mischievous. 20 Limbs. 21 Road. 

* A kind of bridle. 

t This rencounter happened in seed-time of 
»78s.— B. 
t An epidemic fever was then raging m that 



Sin' I began to nick the thread 

And choke the breath: [bread, 
Folk maun do something for theif 
And sae maun Death. 

" Sax thousand years are near hand 

fled 
Sin' I was to the butchering bred, [laid, 
And mony a scheme in vain's been 

To stap or scar me; 
Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade, 

And faith he'Jl waur me 

' 'Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the clachan, 

Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleu- 

chan l'^^ [Buchan § 

He's grown sae weel acquaint with 

And ither chaps, [laughin'. 

The weans^^ haud out their fingers 

And pouk my hips.'-^'* 

"See, here's a scythe, and there's a 

dart. 
They hae pierced mony a gallant heart, 
But Doctor Hornbook, v i' his art; 

And cursed skill, 
Has made them baith no worth a f — t, 

Damn'd haet they'll kill. 

" 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 

I threw a noble throw at ane; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; 

But deil ma care, 
It just play'd dirl on the bane. 

But did nae mair. 

" Hornbook was by, wi' ready art. 
And had sae fortified the part. 
That when I looked to my dart. 

It was sae blunt, [heart 
Fient haet o't wad hae pierced the 

O' a kail-runt.-^ 

" I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I near-hand cowpif^^ wi' my hurry. 
But yet the bauld apothecary 

Withstood the shock; 
I might as weel hae tried a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

" Even themi he canna get attended. 
Although their face he ne'er had kenn'(J 

it. 
Just sh — e in a kail -blade and send it, 

a-* Tobacco-pouch. 23 Children. ^* Plucll 
at his hams — show their contempt for him. 
26 Cabbage-stalk. 2« Tumbled over. 

§ Buchan's Domestic Medicine.— B, 



POEMS. 



41 



As soon's lie sraells't, 
Baith tlieir disease and what will mend 
it 

At ance he tells't, 

** And then a doctor's saws and whittles. 
Of a* dimensions, shapes, and metals, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, and bottles 

He's sure to hae; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A B C. 

*' Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees; 
True salmarinum o' the seas; 
The farina of beans and peas, 

He lias't in plenty; 
Aquafontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

•' Forby2i some new, uncommon weap- 
ons, 
Urinu'3 spiritus of capons; [i^^g^, 

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrap- 

Distill'd per se; 
Salalliali o' midge-tail clippings, 

And mony mae. " 

*' Wues me for Johnnie Ged's * hole 

noo'," 
Quo' I, if that thae news be true ! 
His braw calf- ward f whare gowans*^ 
grew, 

Sae white and bonnie, 
NaG doubi they'll rive it wi' the pleugh; 
They'll ruin Johnnie !" 

Thc! creature grain'd an eldritch'^^ laugh, 
And says, ' * Ye needna yoke the pleugh , 
Kirk -yards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak yenae fear 
They'll a' be trench'd wv' nony a 

sheugh'-'*' 

In twa-three ye^. 

** Whare I kill'd ane i fa^rstrae death, 
By loss o' blood or want o' breath. 
This night I'm free to tak my aith. 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith. 

By drap and pill. 

•* An honest wabster to his trade, 
W^vase AA-ife's twa nieves were scarce 
weel bred. 



2» Daisies, "sunearthly. ^^ Furrow. 
*The grave-digger. 

t The church-yard had been sometimes used 
s an enclosure for calve». 



Gat tippence- worth to mend her head 
When it was sair; 

The wife slade cannie to her bed. 
But ne'er spak mair. 

" A country laird had ta'en the batts. 
Or some curmurring in his guts. 
His only son for Hornbook sets. 

And pays him well; 
The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,^** 

Was laird himsel. 

" A bonnie lass, ye kenn'd her name. 
Some ill-brewn drinU had hoved hel 

wame 
She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook's care; 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame. 

To hide it there. 

" That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's 

way; 
Thus goes he on from day to day. 
Thus does he poison, kill, and slay, 

An's weel paid for't; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey 

Wi' ills damn'd dirt: 

" But hark! I'll tell you of a plot. 
Though dinna ye be speaking o't; 
I'll nail the self-conceited sot. 

As dead's a herrin'; 
Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He's got his fairinT'^^ 

But just as he began to tell. 

The auld kirk hammer strak the bell 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal, 

Wh.ich raised us baith: 
I took the way that pleased mysel. 

And sae did Death. 



THE TWA HERDS ; OR, THE 

HOLY TULZIE. 

The Twa Herds were the Rev. John Russell 
assistant minister of Kilmarnock, and after» 
wards minister at Stirling, and the Rev. 
Alexander Moodie, parish minister at Riccar- 
ton, two zealous "• Auld-Licht" men, mem- 
bers of the clerical party to whom Burns 
was opposed on all occasions. They hr.d 
quarrelled over some question of parish 
boundaries ; and in the presbytery, where 
the question had come up for settlement, 
they fell foul of each other after the mannet 
of the wicked and ungodly. Mr. Lockhai* 
says :— " There, m the open court, to whicb 
the announcement of the discussion ha« 



' Young ewes. 



»' Deserts, 



43 



BURNS' WORKS. 



drawn a multitude of the country-people, 
and Burns among the rest, the reverend 
divmes, hitherto sworn friends and associ- 
ates, lost all command of temper, and abused 
each other cora^n populo^ with a fiery viru- 
lence of personal invective such as has long 
been banished from all popular assemblies 
wherein the laws of courtesy are enforced 
by those of a certain unwritten code." 
Burns seized the opportunity, and in " The 
Twa Herds" gave his version of the affair. 
It is only justice to the poet to mention, 
that he did not include this poem in any of 
the editions of his works published during 
his lifetime. 
" Blockheads with reason wicked wits 

abhor ; 
But fool with fool is barbarous civil 

war." — Pope. 

On, a' ye pious godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pastures ortliodox, 
Wlia now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes, ^ 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks,^ 

About the dikes? 

The twa best herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast. 
These five and twenty simmers past, 

Oh! dool totell, 
Hae had a bitter black outcast^ 

Atween themsel. 

O Moodie man, and wordy Russell, 
How could you raise so vile a bustle, . 
Ye'll see how New-Light herds will 
whistle. 

And think it fine: 
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle 

Sin' I hae min'. 

sirs! whae'er wad hae expeckit, 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 

Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit. 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' Hoodie's flock could 

rank, 
Sae hale and hearty every shank ? 
Kae poison'd sour Arminian stank 

lie let them taste. 
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they 
drank, — 

Oh, sic a feast ! 

The thummart,'* wil'-cat, brock,^ and 

tod,** 
» ^— — — — ■ — 

* Dogs. 2 Stray sheep and old ewes. 
'Ouaprel. « Pole-cat. * Badger. • Fox. 



Weel kenn'd his voice through a' the 

wood, 
He smelt their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in. 
And weel he liked to shed their bluid. 

And sell their skin. 

What herd like Russell tell'd his tale, 
His voice was heard through muir an<j 

dale. 
He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail. 

O'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were sick or hale. 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub. 
Or nobly swing the gospel -club, 
And New-Light herds could nicely 
drub. 

Or pay their skin; [dub, 
Could shal^e them owre the burning 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa— oh 1 do I live to see't, 
Sic famous twa should disagreet. 
And names like "villain," "hypo, 
crite," 

Hk itlier gi'en, 
While Now-Light herds, wi' laughin' 
spite. 

Say neither's lieinT 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 
There's Duncan,* deep, and Peebles,} 

shaul,' 
But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,t 

We trust in thee. 
That thou wilt work them, het and 
cauld. 

Till they agree. 

Consider, sirs, how we're beset. 
There's scarce a new herd that we get 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set 

I winna name; 
I hope frae heaven to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 
Dalrymple § has been lang our fae, 

' Lying. ^ Shallow. 

* Dr. Robert Duncan, minister of DundOd* 
aid. 

t Re'?. William Peebles, of Newton-upoo 
Ayr. 

X Rev. William Auld, minister of MaudW 
lin-. 

§ Rev. Dr. Dalrymple^ one of the mmisteil 
of Ayr. 



POEMSl 



49 



M,Gill I has wrouglit us meikle wae, 
And that cursed rascal ca'd M'Quhae,T[ 

And baith the Shaws,** 
That aft hae made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengef u' paws. 

Auld Wodrowf f lang has hatched mis- 
chief, 
We thought aye death vad bring relief, 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chiel wlia'll soundly buff our beef; 
I meikle dread him. 

And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain v/ould openly rebel, 
Forbye turn-coats amang oursel; 

There's Smith for ane, 
I doubt he's but a gray-nick quill, 

And that ye'll fin'. 

Oh! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills. 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 

Come, join your counsel and your skills. 

To cowe the lairds. 
And get the brutes the powers themsels 

To choose their herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
And Learning in a woody^ dance. 
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair. 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France: 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and D'rymple's eloquence, 
M'Gill's close nervous excellence, 
M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense. 

And guid M'Math, 
Wi' Smith, wha through the heart can 
glance. 

May a' pack aff . 



HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 

The origin of this terrible satire may be briefly 
told as follows : — Gavin Hamilton, the spe- 
cial friend of the poet, had been denied the 
benefit of the ordinances of the church, 
because he was alleged to have made a 
journey on the Sabbath, and to have made 
one of his servants take in some potatoes 
from tne garden on another Sunday— hence 
the allusion to his " kail and potatoes " in 

» Halter. 

I Rev. William M'GiU, one of the ministers 
of Ayr. 

If Minister of St. Quivox. 

** Dr. Andrew Shaw of Craigie, and Dr. 
David Shaw of Coylton. 

•tt Dr. Peter Wodrow, Torbolton. 



the poem. William Fisher, one of Mr. Aulci'i 
elders, made himself somewhat conspicuuu:i 
in the case. He was a great pretender to 
sanctity, and a punctilious stickler for 
outward observances. Poor man, he unfor^ 
tunately merited the satire of the poet, as 
he was a drunkard, and latterly made too 
free with the church-money in his hands. 
Returning drunk from Mauchline one night, 
he fell into a ditch and died from exposure. 

Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, 
Wha, as it pleases best thysel, 
Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, 

A' for thy glory. 
And no for ony guid or ill 

They've done afore thee ! 

1 bless and praise thy matchless might, 
Whan thousands thou hast Ipft in 

night, 
That I am here, afore thy sight. 

For gifts and grace, 
A burnin' and a shinin' light 

To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation. 
That I should get sic exaltation? 
I, wha deserve sic just damnation 

For broken laws. 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation. 

Through Adam's cause. 

When frae my mither's womb I fell, 
Thou might hae plunged me into hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail. 

In burnin' lake, 
Whare damned devils roar and yell, 

Chain'd to a stake. 

Yet I am here a chosen sample. 

To show thy grace is great and ample; 

I'm here a pillar in thy temple. 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an example. 

To a' thy flock. 

O Lord, thou kens what zeal I bear. 
When drinkers drink, and swearera 

swear. 
And singing there, and dancing her*, 

Wi' great and sma'; 
For I am keepit by thy fear. 

Free frae them a*. 

But yet, Lord ! confess I must. 
At times I'm fash'd^ wi' fleshy lust; 
And sometimes, too, wi' wardly trust. 
Vile self gets in, 

— — 

1 Troubled. 



BURNS^ WORKS. 



But thou remembers we are dust, 

Defiled in sin. 
J Lord ! yestreen, thou kens, wi' Meg — 
Thy pardon I sincerely beg. 
Oh, may it ne'er be a livin' plague, 

To my dishonor, 
A.nd I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg 

Again upon her. 
Besides, I farther maun avow, 
Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times 1 trow 
But, Lord, that Friday I was fou' 

When 1 came near her. 
Or else, thou kens, thy servant true 
Wsxd ne'er hae steer'd her. 
Maybe thou lets this fleshy thorn 
Beset thy servant e'en and morn. 
Lest he owre high and proud should 
turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted; 
if sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne 

Until thou lift it. 
Lord, bless thy chosen in this place. 
For here thou hast a chosen race: 
But God confound their stubborn face. 

And blast their name, 
Wlia bring thy elders to disgrace 

And public shame. 
Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, 
He drinks, and swears, and plays at 

cartes, 
ret has sae mony takin' arts, 

Wi' grit and sma', 
Frae God's ain priests the people's 
hearts 

He steals awa'. 
And whan we chasten'd him therefore. 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,^ 
A.S set the world in a roar 

O' laughin' at us; — 
C^/iirse thou his basket and his store, 

Kail and potatoes. 
Lord, hear my earnest cry and prayer 
Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr; 
Tliy strong right hand. Lord, mak it 
bare 

Upo' their heads, 
Iiord, weigh it down, and dinna spare, 

For their misdeeds. 
O Lord, my God, that glib-tongued 
Aiken,* 



^ Disturbance. 
* William Aiken, a lawyer, a friend of the 
poet's. 



My very heart ande saul are quakin'. 
To thinlv how we stood groanin'; 
shakin'. 

And spat wi* dread, 
WhJ4e he, wi' hangin' lip and snakin',^ 

Held up his head. 

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him, 
Lord, visit them wha did employ him,- 
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em. 

Nor hear their prayer; 
But for thy people's sake destroy 'eta. 

And dinna spare. 

But, Lord, remember me and mine, 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine. 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

Excell'd by nane, 
And a' the glory shall be thine, 

Amen, Amen ! 



EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. 

Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay 

Taks up its last abode; 
His saul has ta'en some other way, 

I fear the left-hand road. 

Stop ! there he is, as sure's a gun. 

Poor silly body, see him; 
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun,— 

Observe wha's standing wi' him ! 

Your brunstane devilship, I see. 
Has got him there before ye; 

But baud your nine-tail cat a wee,* 
Till ance ye've heard my story. 

Your pity I will not implore. 

For pity ye ha nane ! 
Justice, alas ! has gien him o'er. 

And mercy's day is gane. 

But hear me, sir, deil as ye are. 
Look something to your credit; 

A coof^ like him wad stain your name^ 
If it were kent ye did it. 



TO A MOUSE, 

ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THK 

PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. 

" The verses to the ' Mouse' and ' Mountain 
Daisy,' " Gilbert Burns says, " were com- 
posed on the occasions mentioned, and 
while the author was holding the plough; 

3 Sneering. » Little. » Fo©L *^ 



POEMS. 



I could point out the particular spot where 
eacL was composed. Holding the plough 
was a favorite situation with Robert for 
poetic compositions, and some of his best 
verses were produced while he was at that 
exercise." 
"John Blane," says Mr. Chambers, " who was 
farm-servant at Mossgiel at the time of its 
composition, still (1838) lives at Kilmarnock. 
He stated to me that he recollected the inci- 
dent perfectly. Burns was holding the 
plough, with Blane for his driver, when the 
little creature was observed running off 
across the rield. Blane, having the/^///,?, or 
plough-cleaning utensil, in his hand at the 
moment, was thoughtlessly running after it, 
to kill it, when Burns checked him, but not 
angrily, asking what ill the poor mouse had 
ever done him. The poet then seemed to 
his driver to grow very thoughtful, and, 
during the remainder of the afternoon, he 
spoke not. In the night time he awoke 
Blane, who slept with him, and, readmg the 
poem which had in the meantime been com- 
posed, asked what he thought of the mouse 
now." 

Wee, sleekit, cowrin', tim'rous beastie, 
Oh, wliat a panic's in tliy breastie ! 
Thou needna start awa' sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle !' 
I wad be laitli. to rin and chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring pattle !"^ 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken nature's social union, 
And justifies that ill opinion 

Which maks the6 startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 

And fellow-mortal ! 

I doubt na, whiles,^ but thou may 
thieve; [live! 

What then ? poor beastie, thou maun 
A daimen icker in a thrave* 

'S a sma' o request: 
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,'* 
^ And nev.er miss't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 
And naething now to big^ a new ane 

O' foggage green ! 
.And bleak December's winds ensuin' 

Baith snelP and keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste. 
And weary winter comin' fast. 

1 Hurrying run. * Pattle or Pettle, the 
plough spade. ^ Sometimes. * Remainder. 

6 Build. 6 Sharp. 

♦ An ear of corn in a thrave— that is, twen- 
Ur-four sheaves. 



And cozie' here, beneath the blast. 
Thou thought to dwelL 

Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 
Out through thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibbia 
Has cost thee niony a weary nibble \ 
Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble. 

But** house or hauld,** / 
To thole'^ the winter's sleety dribble, 

And cranreuch'* caulti. 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane. 
In proving foresight may be vain; 
The best laid schemes o' mice and men 

Gang aft a-gley. 
And lea'e us nought but grief and pain 

For promised joy. 

Still thou art blesi, compared -svi' me 1 
The present only toucheth thee. 
But, och ! I backward cast my ee 

On prospects drear I 
And forward, though I canna see, 

I guess and fear. 



HALLOWEEN. 

The following poem will, by many readers, 
be well enough understood ; but for the 
sake of those who are unacquainted with 
the manners and traditions of the country 
where the scene is cast, notes are added, to 
give some account of the principal charms 
and spells of that night, so big with proph- 
ecy to the peasantry in the west of Scot- 
land. The passion of prying into futurity 
makes a striking part of the history of 
human nature in its rude state, in all ages 
and nations ; and it may be some entertain- 
ment to a philosophic mind, if any such 
should honor the author with a perusal, to 
see the remains of it among the more unen~ 
lightened in our own.— B. 

" Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. ' 
— Goldsmith. 

Upon that night, when fairies light 
On Cassilis Downans f dance, 

Or owre the lays\ in splendid blaze, 
On sprightly coursers prance; 

Or for Colean the route is ta'en. 
Beneath the moon's pale beams; 



7 Comfortable. » Without. » Holding. »<> En- 
dure. 1^ Hoar-frost. 

1 Fields. 

t Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, 
in the neighborhood of the ancient seat of the 
Earls of Cassilis.— B. < 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Tliere, up the cove, ^ to stray and rove, 
Among the rocks and streams 
To sport that night 

Among the bonny winding banks, 

Where Doon rins, wimplin', clear, 
Where Bruce § ance ruled the martial 
ranks. 

And shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, country-folks, 

Together did convene, [stocks, 

To burn their nits, aud pou"^ their 

And hand their Halloween 

Fu' blithe that night. 

The lasses feat,^ and cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when there're fine; 
Their faces blithe, fu' sweetly kytlie,^ 

Hearts leal,^ and warm, and kin': 
The lads sae trig,*' wi' wooer-babs,'' 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate,** and some wi' gabs,^ 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' 
Whiles fast at night. 

Then, first and foremost, through the 
kail, 
Their stocks | maun a' be soug/it ance; 
They steek'" their een, and graip'^ and 
wale,'"^ 
For muckle anes and straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel'^ Will fell aff the drift. 

And wander'd through the bow-kail, 
And pou't, for want o' better shift, 



2 Pull. 3 Trim. * Show. ^ True. « Spruce. 
' Double loops. « Bashful. » Talk, i" Close. 
»i Grope. 12 Choose. i3 Half-witted. 

t A noted Cavern near Colean-house, 
called the Cove of Colean ; which, as well as 
Cassilis Downans, is famed in country story 
for being a favorite haunt of fairies. — B. 

§ The famous family of that name, the ances- 
tors of Robert Bruce, the great deliverer of 
bis country, were Earls of Carrick. — B. 

H The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling 
each a stock or plant of kail. They must go 
out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull 
the first they meet with ; its being big or little, 
straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size 
and shape of the grand object of all their 
spells— the husband or wife. If any yird, or 
earth stick to the root, that is toclier or for- 
tune, and the taste of the custoc, that is, the 
heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural 
temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, or, 
to give them their ordinary appellation, the 
runts, are placed somewhere above the head 
of the door ; and the Christian names of the 
people whom chance brings into th^ house, 
are, according to the priority of placing the 
mats, the names in question. — B. 



A runt was lilie a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't'-* that night. 

Then, straught or crooked, yird of 
nane. 

They roar and cry a' throu'ther; 
The very wee things, todlin','^ rin, 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther; 
And gif the custoc's sweet or sour. 

Wi' joctelegs"* they taste them; 
Syne cozily,^' aboon the door, [ihen 

Wi' cannie^* care, they've placet 
To lie that night. 

The lasses staw^* frae 'mang them a* 

To pou their stalks o' corn:* 
But Rab slips out, and jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn: 
He grippet Nelly hard and fast; 

Loud skirl'd-" a' the lasses; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost. 

When kitlin'^' in the fause-housef 
Wi' him that night. 

The auld guid wife's weel-hoordit nits^ 

Are round and round divided. 
And monie lads' and lasses' fates 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle coothie,'-^'^ side by side. 

And burn thegither trimly; 
Some start awa, wi' saucy pride, 

And jump out-owre the chimlie 
Fu' high that night. 

Jean slips in twa wi' ten tie ee; 

Wha 'twas she wadna tell; 
But this is Jock, and this is me. 

She says in to hersel: [liim. 

He bleezed owre her, and she owre 

As they wad never mair. part; 



14 Crooked, i^ Tottering. ^^ Clasp-knives. 
17 Comfortably. i8 Gentle. !» Stole. 26scream- 
ed. «i Cuddling. 22 Agreeably. 

* They go to the barn-yard and pull each 
at three several times, a stalk of oats. If the 
third stalk wants the top-pickle, that is, the 
gram at the top of the stalk, the party in Ques- 
tion will come to the marriage-bed anytning 
but a maid. — B. 

+ When the corn is in a doubtful state, by 
being too green or wet, the stack-builder, by 
means of old timber, &c., makes a large apart- 
ment in his stack, with an opening in the side 
which is fairest exposed to the wind ; this he 
calls a fause-house. — B. 

t Burning the nuts is a famous charm. 
They name the lad and lass to each particular 
nut, as they lay them in the fire, and, accord- 
ingly as they burn quietly together, or start 
from beside one another, the course and issuQ 
of the courtship will be.— B. 



POEMS. 



illl. fuff ! he started up the lum,^^ 
And Jean had e'en a sair heart 
To see't that night. 

Poor Willie, wi' his "bow-kail runt, 
Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie; 

And Mallie, nae doubt, took the 
drunt,-"* 
To be compared to Willie; 

Hall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 

And her ain fit it brunt it; 
While Willie lap, and swore by jing, 

'Twas just the way he wanted 
To be that night. 

Nell had the fause-house in her min', 

She pits herscl and Rob in; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join. 

Till white in ase they're sobbin'; 
Nell's heart was dancin' at the view, 

She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't: 
Rob, stowlins, prie'd" her bonny mou', 

Fu' cozie-^ in the neuk for't, 
Unseen that night. 

But IMerran sat behint their backs. 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell; 
She lea'es them gasliin'-'' at their cracks. 

And slips out by liersel: 
She through the yard the nearest taks. 

And to the kiln goes then. 
And darklins graipit for the bauks,^^ 

And in the blue-clue""^ throws then. 
Right f ear't that night. 

And aye she win't,^^ and aye she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin',"* 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid Lord ! but she was quakin'! 
But whether 'was the deil himsel, 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en'. 
Or Avhether it was Andrew Bell, 

Slie didna wait on talkin' 

To spier^^ that night. 

Wee Jenny to her grannie says. 



23 Chimney. 24 Pet. 25 Stealthily kissed. 
*« Snugly. 27 Talking-. ^s Cross-beams. 
*9 Winded. 3" Dallying, 3i Inquire. 

* Whoever would, with success, try this 
spell, must strictly observe these directions : 
—Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and dark- 
ling, -throw into the pot a clue of blue yar?^ • 
wind it in anew clue off the old one; ana,- 
towards the latter end, something will hold 
the thread, demand, *' Wha bauds?" — /.<'., 
who holds? An answer will be returned from 
ttie kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and sur- 
o£ your future spouse. — B, 



" Will ye go wi' me, grannie? 
I'll eat- the applef at the glass 

I gat frae Uncle Johnnie: ' 
She fufE't her pipe wi' sic a lunt,^ 

In wi'ath she was sae vap'rin'. 
She notices na, an aizle^^ brunt 

Her bravv new worset apron 

Out through that night* 
' ' Ye little skelpie-linmier's face I 

I daur you try sic sportin'. 
As seek the foul thief ony place. 

For him to spae^"* your fortune, 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight I 

Great cause ye hae to fear it; • 
For mony a ane has gotten a fright, 

And lived and died deleeret 
Cn sic a night. 
" Ae hairst afore the Sherramoor,— 

I mind't as weel's yestreen, 
I was a gilpey^^ then, I'm sure 

I wasna past fifteen; 
The simmer had been caald and wat| 

And stuff was unco green; 
And aye a rantin' kirn^** we gat. 

And just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 
" Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graea* 

A clever sturdy fallow: 
His son gat Eppie Sim wi' wean. 

That lived in Achmacalla: 
He gat hemp-seed,:]: I mind it weel. 

And he made unco light o't; 
But mony a day was by himsel, 

He was sae sairly frighted 

That very night." 
Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, 

And he swore by his conscience, 

32 Smoke. 33 Cinder. 3* Foretell 

35 Young Girl. 36 Harvest home. 

t Take a candle, and go alone to a looking 
glass ; eat an apple before it, and, some tra 
ditions say, you should com.b your hair all the 
time; the face of your conjugal companion tc be 
will be seen in the glass^^as if peeping over 
your shoulder. — B. 

t Steal out, unperceived,and sow a handfu' 
of hemp-seed, harrying it with anything you 
can conveniently draw "ifter you. Repeat now 
and then, " Hemp-seea, I sav/ thee ; hemp« 
seed, I saw thee ; and him (or her) that is 
to be my true love, come after me and pc* 
thee." Look over your left shoulder, and you 
will see the appearance of the person invoke^ 
in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some trad* 
tions say, '" Come after me and shaw thee," 
'.hat is, show thyself ; in which case 't simplj 
appears. Others omit the harrowing, and Siijfl 
*' Come after nae and harrow thee.'' — B, 



48 



BURNS' WORKS. 



That he could saw hemp-seed a peck; 

For it was a' but nonsense. [pock, 
The auld guidman raught^'' down the 

And out a hanf u' gied him; 
Byne bade him slip frae 'mang the folk, 

Some time when nae ane see'd him. 
And try't that night. 
He marches through amang the stacks, 

Though he was something sturtin;^** 
The graip33 he for a harrow taks, 

And haurls"*** it at his curpin;^* 
And every now and then he says, 

" Hemp-seed, I saw thee, 
And her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me, and draw thee 
As fast this night. " 
He whistled up Lord Lennox' march 

To keep his courage cheery; 
Although his hair began to arch, 

He was say fley'd'''^ and eerie: 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

And then a grane and gruntle; 
He by his shouther gae a keek. 

And tumbled wi' a wintle"*^ 

Out-owre that night. 
He roar'd a horrid murder-shout. 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
And young and auld cam runnin' out 

To hear the sad narration; 
He swore 'twas hilchiu'" Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouchie'*' Merran Humphie, [a' — 
Till, stop ! she trotted through them 

And wha was it but grumphie*^ 
Asteer that night ! 
Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen, 

To win three wechts'*'' o' naething;* 
But for to meet the deil her lane. 

She pat but little faith in: 



3' Reached, se Timorous. 39 Dung-fork. 
*° Drags. 4' Rear. " Frightened. 43 Stagger. 
« Halting. 45 Crookbacked. 46 xhe pig. 
*' Corn-baskets. 

* This charm must likewise be performed un- 
perceived and alone. You go to the barn, and 
open both doors, taking them off the hinges, 
if possible ; for there is danger that the being 
about to appear may shut the doors, and do 
you some mischief. Then take that instru- 
ment used in winnowing the com, which in 
our country dialect we call a wecht ; and go 
through all the attitudes of letting down corn 
against the wind. Repeat it three times ; and 
the third time an apparition will pass through 
the barn In at the windy door, and out at the 
Other, having both the figure in question, and 
the appearance or retinue marking the em- 
^oyment or sution ia life.— B. 



She gies the herd a pickle'*^ nits. 
And two red-cheekit apples. 

To watch, while for the barn she 
In hopes to see Tam Kipples 
That very nicht. 

She turns the key wi cannie"*' thraw, 

And owre the threshold ventures; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca' 

Syne bauldly in she enters: 1 

A ratton rattled up the wa', [ 

And she cried. Lord, perserve her I 
And ran through midden-hole and a* 

And pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, 
Fu' fast that night; 

They hoy't^" out Will wi' sair advice; 

They^' hecht him some fine braw ane; 
It chanced the stack he faddom't thricej[ 

Was timmer-propt for thrawin'; 
He taks a swirlie,^'^ auld moss-oak, 

For some black grousome^^ carlin; 
And loot a winze, ^"^ and drew a stroke. 

Till skin in blypes^^ cam haurlin' 
Aff's nieves^'*' that night. 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As canty as a kittlin; 
But, och! that night amang the shaws,^' 

She got a f earf u' settlin' ! [cairn. 
She through the whins, °^ and by the 
And owre the hill gaed scrievin, [burnj 
Whare three lairds' lands met at a 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in. 

Was bent that night. 

Wliyles owre a linn the burnie plays. 
As through the glen it wimpl't;*' 

Wliyles round a rocky scaur^" it strays; 
Whyles in a wiel" it dimpl't; 



48 Few. 49 Gentle, ^o Urged, si Promised. 
" Knotty. 53 Hideous. ^* Oath. *& Shreds, 
5« Hands. " Woods, *8 Gorse. ^9 Wheeled 
«<> Cliff. «i Eddy. 

t Take an opportunity of going unnoticed 
to a bean-stack, and fathom it three times 
round. The last fathom of the last time, you 
will catch in your arms the appearaace of 
your future conjugal yoke-fellow.— B. 

t You go out, one or more, for this is a social 
spell, to a south-running spring or rivulet, 
where " three lairds' lands meet, and dipyouf 
left shirt-sleeve. Go to bed in sight cJi afire, 
and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. 
Lie awake ; and, some time near midnight, an 
apparitfon having the exact figure of the 
grand object in question, will come and turn 
the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of iU'« 
B. 



POEMS. 



99 



Wliyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, daivcing dazzle; 
Wliyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen tliat night. 
Ainang the brackens, on the brae, 

Between her and the moon, 
The deil, or else an outler quey,^' 

Gat up and gae a croon :*''^ 
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the liool !®^ 

Near lav'rock- height she jumpit; 
But mist a fit, and in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 
in order, on the clean hearth-stane. 

The higgles three || are ranged, 
Aad every time great care is ta'en] 

To see them duly changed: 
A aid Uncle John, wha wedlock joys 

Sin' Mar's year did desire. 
Because he gat the toom^^ dish thrice, 

He heaved them on the fire 

In wrath that night. 
Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks, 

I wat they didna weary; 
And unco tales, and funny jokes. 

Their sports were cheap and cheery; 
Till butter'd so'ns,^ wi' fragrant lunt,^^ 

Set a' their gabs^*^ a-steeriu'; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt,^'' 

They parted aff careerin' 

Fu' blythe that night. 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 

A DIRGE. 

Several of the poems," says Gilbert Burns, 
" were produced for the purpose of bring- 
ing forward some favourite sentiment of the 



«' Unhoused heifer. ''^ jv[„an. ^^ Burst its 
case. ^* Empty. ^^ Smoke. ®® Mouths. 
*'' Spirits. 

II Take three dishes ; put clean water in 
one, foul water in another, leave the third 
empty : blindfold a person, and lead him to 
the hearth where the dishes are ranged ; he 
(or she) dips the left hand : if by chance in the 
clean water, the future husband or wife will 
come to the bar of matrimony a maid : if in the 
foul, a widow , if in the empty dish, it foretells, 
with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It 
is repeated three times, and every time the 
arrangement of the dishes is altered.— B. 

§ SowENS.— The shell of the corn (called, in 
the rural districts, shellings) is steeped in 
water until all the fine meal particles are ex- 
tracted ; the liquid is then strained off, and 
boiled with milk and butter until it thickens. 



author's. He used to remark to me that he 
could not well conceive a more mortifying 
picture of human life than a man seeking 
work. In casting about in his mind how 
this sentiment might be brought forward, 
the elegy. ' Man was Made to Mourn,' was 
composed." 
An old Scottish ballad had suggested the form 
and spirit of this poem. " I had an old 
grand-uncle," says the poet to Mrs. Dunlop, 
"' with whom my mother lived a while in 
her girlish years. The good old man was 
long blind ere he died, during which time 
his highest enjoyment was to sit down and 
cry, while my mother would sing the simple 
old song of ' The Life and Age of Man.' " 
From the poet's mother, Mr. Cromek pro- 
cured a copy of this composition j it com* 
mences thus : — 
" Upon the sixteen hundred year 

Of God and fifty-three 
Frae Christ was born, who bought us dear* 

As writings testify ; 
On January the sixteenth day, 

As I did lie alone. 
With many a sigh and sob did say 

Ah ! man was made to moan !" 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, ^ 
One evening, as I wander'd forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spied a man whose aged step 

Seem'd weary worn with care; 
His face was f urrow'd o'er with years. 

And hoary was his hair. 

"Young stranger, whither wanderest 
thou ?" 

Began the reverend sage; [strain, 
"Does thirst of wealth thy step con- 

Or youthful pleasures rage ? 
Or haply, prest with cares and woes. 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth with me to mourn 

The miseries of man. 

" The Sun that overhangs yon moors. 

Outspreading far and wide. 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride- 
I've seen yon weary winter sun 

Twice forty times return, 
And every time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn. 
' ' O man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Misspending all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway; 

Licentious passions burn; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's la^ 

That man was made to mourn. 



so 



BURNS' WORKS 



•* Look not alone on youthful prime. 

Or manhood's active might; 
/Ian then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right, 
But see him on the edge of life. 

With cares and sorrows worn; 
Then age and want — oh ! ill match'd 
pair ! — 

Show man was made to mourn. 

" A few seem favourites of fate. 

In pleasure's lap carest; 
Yet think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, oh ! what crowds in every land 

Are wretched and forlorn ! 
Through weary life this lesson learn — 

That man was made to mourn, 

*' Many and sharp the numerous ills 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves — 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn ! 

*' See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight. 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn. 
Unmindful, though a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

" If I'm design*d yon lordling's slave — 

By nature's law design'd — 
Wliy was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind ? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn ? 
Or why has man the will and power 

To make his fellow mourn ? 

' Yet let not this too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast; 
This partial view of human kind 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppress'd, honest man. 

Had never, sure, been born, 
liad there not been some recompense 
To comfort those that mourn, 

" O Death ! the poor man's dearest 

friend — 
1 Tli&ikindest and the best ! 



Welcom« the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
Tlie great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn; 
But, oh ! a blest relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn I" 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY 
NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. 

Gilbert Burns gives the following distinct 
account of the origin of this poem :— " Rob- 
ert had frequently remarked to me that he 
thought there was something peculiarly 
venerable in the phrase, ' Let us worship 
God !' used by a decent, sober head of a 
family, introducing family worship. To this 
sentiment of the author, the world is indebt- 
ed for 'The Cotter's Saturday Night.' 
When Robert had not some pleasure in view 
in which I was not thought fit to partici- 
pate, we used frequently to walk together, 
when the weather was favourable, on the 
Sunday afternoons— those precious breath- 
ing times to the laboring part of the com- 
munity—and enjoyed such Sundays as 
would make one regret to see their number 
abridged. It was in one ot these walks that 
I first had the pleasure of hearing the author 
repeat 'The Cotter's Saturday Night.' I do 
not recollect to have read or heard anything 
by which I was more highly electrified. 
The fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eigh- 
teenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstasy through 
my soul. The cotter, in the ' Saturday 
Night,' IS an exact copy of my father in his 
manners, his family devotion, and exhorta- 
tions ; yet the other parts of the description 
do not apply to our family. None of us 
were ' at service out among the farmers 
toun'.' Instead of our depositing our 
'saii-won penny-fee' with our parents, my 
father laboured hard, and lived with the most 
rigid economy, that he might be able to 
keep his children at home, thereby having 
an opportunity of watching the progress of 
our young mind s, and forming in them early 
habits of piety and virtue ; and from thi? 
motive alone did he engage in farming, the 
source of all his difficulties and distresses. 

" Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smil^ 
The short but simple annals of the poor.** 
—Gray. 

My loved, my honor'd, much -respected 

friend ! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays; 

With honest pride, I scorn each selfish 

end: [and praise. 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem 



POEMS/ 



(K 



To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd 

scene; [less ways: 

The native feelings strong, the guile- 

What Aiken in a cottage would have 

been; [happier there, I ween ! 

Ah ! though his worth unknown, far 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry 

sugh;* [close; 

The shoit'ning winter-day is near a 

The miry beasts retreatmg frae the 

pleugh; [their repose; 

The biack'ning trains o' craws, to 

The tol'-wora cotter frae his labour 

goes, [end, 

This night his weekly moil is at an 

Collects his spades, his mattocks, and 

his hoes, [spend, 

Hoping the mom in ase and rest to 

And, weary, o'er the moor his course 

does hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view 
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; 
Th' expectant wee things, toddlin', 
stacher through [noise and glee. 
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' 
His wee bit ingle, blinking bonnily, 
His clean hearthstane, his thrifty 
wifie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 
Does a' liis weary carking cares be- 
guile, [and liis toil. 
And makes him quite forget his labour 

Belyve,^ the elder bairns come drapping 
in, [roun': 

At service out among the farmers 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some 
tentie rin 
A cannie errand to a neibor town: 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman 
grown, [her ee, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in 
Comes hame, perhaps to show a braw 
new gown. 
Or deposit her sair-won penny fee. 
To help her parents dear, if they in 
hardship be. 

Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters 

meet, spiers:^ 

And each for other's welfare kindly 



The social hours, swift-wing'd unnotic- 
ed, fleet; [heart: ; 
Each tells the uncos'* that he sees ot 
The parents, partial, eye their ho^ef uj 
years; 
Anticipation forward points the \ lew. 
The mother, wi' her needle and hei 
shears, [the new- - 
Gars auld claes look amaist as weer^ 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 
Their master's and their mistress's 
conmiand. 
The younkers a' are warned to obey; 
And mind their labours wi' an eydent' 
hand, [jauk^ or play: 
And ne'er, though out o' sight, to 
" And oh ! be sure to fear the L^rd al- 
way ! [night ! 
And mind your duty, duly, morn and 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang 
astray [might; 
Implore His counsel and assisting 
They never sought in vain that sought 

the Lord aright !" 

But, bark ! a rap comes gently to the 

door, [same, 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the 

Tells how a neibor lad cam o'er the 

moor, [hame. 

To do some errands, and convoy her 

The wily mother sees the conscious 

flame [cheek, 

Sparkle in Jenny's ee, and flush her 

Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires 

his name, [speak; 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to 

Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae 

wild, worthless rake. 
Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him 
ben; [er's eye; 

A strappin' youth; he taks the moth- 
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no illta'en; 
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, 
and kye. [wi' joy, 

Tlie youngster's artless heart o'erflows 
But blate' and lathefu','* scarce can 
weel behave; [spy 

The mother, wi' a woman' wiles, can 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' 
and sae grave; 
Weel pleased to think her bairn's r» 
spected like the lave,* 



' Moan. 



* Strange things. ^ Diligent. • Dal 
a By and by. ' Inquires. I ' Bashful. * Hesitating. • Other people 



mmw woRKa 



Oh happy love ! — where love like this 

is found ! — [yond compare ! 

Oh heart-felt raptures ! — bliss be- 

I've paced much this weary, mortal 

round, [declare — 

And sage experience bids me this 

•*If Heaven a draught of heavenly 

pleasure spare. 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

Tis when a youthful, loving, modest 

pair, . [tender tale. 

In other's arms, breathe out the 

Beneath the milk-white thorn, that 

scents the evening gale." 
Is there, in human form, that bears a 
heart, [truth ! 

A Avretck ! a villain ! lost to love and 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring 
art, youth ? 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting 
Curse on his perjured arts ! dissem- 
bling smooth ! [exiled? 
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 
Points to the parents fondling o'er 
their child ? [distraction wild ! 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their 

But now the supper crowns their sim- 
ple board, [Scotia's food; 
The halesome parritch,"* chief of 
The soupe" their only hawkie^^ does 
afford, [her cood: 
That '3'ont the liallan^^ snu^y chows 
The dame brings forth, in complimen- 
tal mood, [kebbuck,'^ fell,^^ 
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd 
And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it 
guid: [tell, 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will 
How 'twas a towmond"* auld, sin' lint 
was i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious 

face, [wide; 

They, round the ingle, form a circle 

The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal 

grace, [pride; 

The big ha' Bible, ance his father's 

His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 

His lyart haffets''' wearing thin and 

bare; [Zion glide, 

Those strains that once did sweet in 

'0 Porridge. i» Milk. 12 Cow. > 3 Porch. 
'* Cheese. ^^ Biting. *« Twelvemonth. 
•' Gray temples. 



He wales'^ a portion with judiclou 

care; [with aolemn au 

And " Let us worship God," he soja 

They chant their artless notes in simpli 

guise; [noblest aim 

They tune their hearts, by far the 

Perhaps "Dundee's" wild- warbling 

measures rise, [the name 

Or plaintive "Martyrs," worthy ol 

Or noble " Elgin" beets the heaven 

v»^aid flame, [lays; 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy 

Compared with these, Italian trills ara 

tame; [raise; 

The tickled ear no heartfelt raptures 

Nae unison hae they with our^Jreator'a 

praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred 
page, - [on high; 

How Abram was the friend of GOD 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wag-e 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 

Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's 

avenging ire [cry; 

Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred 

lyre. 
Perhaps the Christian volume is the 
theme, [was shed; 

How guiltless blood for guilty man 
How He, who bore in heaven the 
second name, [His head: 

Had not on earth whereon to lay 
How His first followers and servants 
sped; [a land: 

The precepts sage they wrote to many 
How he, who lone in Patmos banish'd. 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pro- 
nounced by 
Heaven'o command. 
Then kneeling down, to Hea\'t:n"S 
ETERNAL KiNG, [band prays: 
The saint, the father, and the bus- 
Hope ' ' springs exulting on triumphant 
wing,"* [future days: 

That thus they all shall meet in 
There ever bask in uncreated rays. 
No more to sigh or shed the bittej 
tear. 



'•• Selects. 
* Pope's *' Windsor Forest." 



POEMS. 



Together hymning their Creator's 
praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear; 
While circling time moves round iu an 

eternal sphere. 
Compared with this, how poor re- 
ligion's pride, [art, 
In all the pomp of method and of 
When men display to congregations 
[ wide [heart ! 
f Devotion's every grace, except the 
The Power, incensed, the pageant will 
desert [stole: 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal 
But, haply, in some cottage far apart, 
May hear, well pleased, the language 
of the soul; [enrol. 
And in his book of life the inmates poor 

Then homeward all take off their sev • 
eral way; 
The youngling cottagers retire to rest •. 
The parent- pair their secret homage 
pay, [request 

And proffer up to heaven the warm 
That He, who stills the raven's clamor- 
ous nest, [pride, 
And decks the lily fair in flowery 
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the 
j best, [provide; 
For them and for their little ones 
JBut, chiefly, in their liearts with grace 
divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's 
grandeur springs, [ered abroad : 
That makes her loved at home, rev- 
Princes and lords are but the breath of 
kings, [of GOD;" 

** An honest man's the noblest work 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly 
road, [liind. 

The cottage leaves the palace far be- 
What is a lordling's pomp? — a cum- 
brous load, Pvind, 
Disguising oft the wretch of human 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness 

refined ! 
O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
For whom my warmest wish to 
Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic 
toil. 
Be blest with health, and peace, and 
sweet content ! [lives prevent 
4Ad« oh J may Heaven their simple 



From luxury's contagion, weak and 

vile ! [rent, 

Then, howe'er crown anrJ coronets be 

A virtuous populace nn>y rise the 

while, [much-loved isle. 

And stand a wall of fire around their 

Thou I who pour'd the patrio-xic tide 
That stream'd through Wallace's 
undaunted heart; [pride, 

Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic 
Or nobly die, the second glorious 
part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, 
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and 
reward !) 
Oh, never, never, Scotia's realm desert; 
But still the patriot, and the patriot- 
bard, [ment and guard I 
In bright succession raise, her orna- 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 

"Oh prince! Oh chief of many thronfed 
powers, 
That led th' embattled seraphim to war !" 
— Milton. 

THOU ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,* 
Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie. 

Closed under hatches, 
Spairgesf about the brunstane cootie,| 

To scaud poor wretches f 
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
And let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can^gie. 

E'en to a deil . 



* A well-known term applied to Satan va 
Scotland in allusion to his hoofs or c/oois. 

t Spairges is the best Scots word in its 
place I ever met with. The deil is not stand- 
ing flinging- the liquid brimstone on his 
friends with a ladle, but we see him standing 
at a large boiling vat, with something like a 
golf-bat, striking the liquid this way and that 
way aslant, with all his might, making it fly 
through the whole apartment, while the in-* 
mates are winking and holding up their arms 
to defend their faces. This is precisely the 
idea conveyed by spairging : flinging it in any 
other way would be laving or splashing.— » 
The Ettkick Shepherd. 

X The legitimate meaning of this word is a 
«mah wooden tub ; here it implies not only 
the utensil, but liquid brimstone ; just as a 
toper talks of his can or his cogie, meaning 
both the liquor and the utensil ia which it it 
held. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me, 
And hear us squeel ! 

^Jreat is tliy power, and great thy 

fame ; 
Far kenn'd and noted is thy name : 
^d though yon lowin' heugh's^ thy 
hame, 

Thou travels far : [lame, 
And, faith ! thou's neither lag nor 

Nor blate nor scaur. '^ 
Whyles ranging lilce a roaring lion, 
For prey a' holes and corners tryin' ; 
Whyles on the strong -wing'd tempest 
fly in', 

Tirlin'3 the kirks ; 
Whyles in the human bosom pryin', 
Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my reverend grannie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray : 
Or where auld ruin'd castles, gray, 

Nod to the moon. 
Ye fright the nightly wanderer's way 

Wi' eldritch croon.'* 

When twilight did my grannie sum- 
mon, [woman ! 
To say her prayers, douce, honest 
Aft yont the dike she's heard you 
bummin', 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin', through the boortries^ 
comin', 

Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, [light. 
The stars shot down wi' sklentin' ^ 
Wi' you, myself, 1 gat a fright 

Ayont the lough ; 
Jfe, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sough. 

The cudgel in my nieve^ did shake, 
Each bristled hair stood like a stake. 
When wi* an eldritch, stoor quaick, 
quaick, 

Amang the springs, 
Awa'ye squatter'd, like a drake. 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, and wither'd hags, 
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags, 
They skim the muirs and dizzy crags, 
Wi' wicked speed ; 



' Burning pit. ^ Apt to be frightened. ^ Un- 
covering^. * Unearthly moaji. ^ Elder-trees. 
• Glanung. ^ Fist. 



And in kirk-yards renew their leagueij 
Owre howkit" dead. 

Thence count ra wiv^es, wi' toil and 
pain, [vain : 

May plunge and plunge the kirn in 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure 's ta'en 

By witching skill ; 
And dawtit' twal-pint hawkie's gaen 

As yell's'" the bill. 
Thence mystic knots mak great abuse 

[crouse ; 
On young guidmen, fond, keen, and 
When the best wark-lume i' tha 
house. 

By cantrip wit. 
Is instant made no worth a louse. 

Just at the bit. 
When thowes dissolve the snawy 

hoord. 
And float the jinglin' icy boord. 
Then water-kelpies haunt the foord. 

By your direction ; 
And 'nighted travellers are allured 

To their destruction. 

And aft your moss-traversing spun- 

kies § [is ; 

Decoy the wight that late and drunlr 

The bleezin', curst, mischievous mon. 

keys 

Delude his eyes. 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is. 

Ne'er mair to rise. 
When mason's mystic word and grip 
In storms and tempests raise you up. 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stoft 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest brother ye wad whip 
AfE straught to hell ! 
Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard. 
When youthfu' lovers first were 

pair'd. 
And all the soul of love they shared, 

The raptured hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant flowery sward, 

In shady bower. || 
, — . , — — • 

8 Disinterred. » Petted. " Milkleis. 
§ Will o' the wisp. 
IIThis verse ran originally thus :— 
Lang syne in Eden's happy scene 
When strappin' Adam's days were greea. 
And Eve was like my bonnie Jean, 
My dearest part, 
A dancin', sweet, young, handsome queei^ 
Wi' gmleless heart. 



POEMS. 



ru 



Then you, ye auld sneck - drawing 

dog!t 
Ye came to Paradise inco^. , 
And play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa' !) 
And gied the infant warld a shog," 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,'*^ 
Wi' reekit duds/^and reestit gizz,''* 
Ye did present your smoutie'^ phiz 

'Mang better folk. 
And sklented'® on the man of Uzz 

Your spitefu joke ? 

And how ye gat him i' your thrall. 
And brak him out o' house and hall, 
While scabs and blotches did him gall, 
Wi' bitter claw. 

And lowsed his ill-tongued, wicked 
scawl,'' 

Was warst ava ? 

But a' your doings to rehearse. 
Your wily snares and fechtin' fierce, 
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, 

Down to this time. 
Wad ding a Lallan'^ tongue or Erse,'^ 

In prose or rhyme. 

And now old Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin', 
A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', 
Some luckless hour will send him 
liokin' 

To your black pit; 
But, faith, he'll turn a corner jinkin*,2o 

And cheat you yet. 
But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 
Oh, wad ye tak a thought and men' 1 
Ye aiblins^' might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den. 

Even for your sake ! 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 

A CANTATA. 

iTiis famous poem, or rather drama, is found- 
ed on a scene actually witnessed by the 
TOct. In company with his friends, John 
Richmond and James Smith, he was pass- 

" Shake. " Hurry. " Smoked clothes. 
5* Sing^ed hair. ** Dirty. >« Glanced. ''Scold- 
ing wife. 1* Lowland. ^^ Celtic. '**' Dodging. 
'^Ferhaps. 

1" Literally, withdrawing a latch burglar- 
iously — here it means taking an advantage — 
gcttioifi intQ Paradise on false pretei*«es. 



in^ Poosie Nansie's when their attention 
being attracted by sounds of mirth and Jol- 
lity proceeding from the interior, they enter. 
ed, and were rapturou.sly welcomed by the 
motle band of beggars and tinkers carousing 
there. Burns proiessed to have been great* 
ly delighted with the scene, more especially 
with the jolly behaviour of a maimed old 
soldier. In a few days he recited portions 
of the poem to John Richmond, who uaed 
to speak of songs by a sweep and a saUor 
which did not appear in the completed mi^« 
uscript. 

RECITATIVO. 

When lyart^ leaves bestrew the yird»* 
Or wavering like the baukie-bird,' 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast; 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyt«^* 
And infant frosts begin to bite. 
In hoary cranreuch^ drest; 
Ae night at e'en a merry core 

O' randie, gangreP bodies, 
In Poosie Nansie's held the splore,' 
To drink their orra duddies:^ 
Wi' quaffing and laughing. 

They ranted and they sang; 
Wi' jumping and thumping. 
The vera girdle* rang. 
First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel braced wi' mealy bags^ 

And knapsack a' in order; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae and blankets warm*- 

She blinket on her sodger: 
And aye he gied the tozie drab 

The tither skelpin' kiss, 
While she held up her greedy gab. 
Just like an aumos dish.f 

Ilk smack still, did crack still. 
Just like a cadger's :}: whup. 
Then staggering and swaggering 
He roar'd this ditty up — 

AIR. 

Tune — " Soldiers' Joy." 
I am a son of Mars, who have been in 

many wars. 



1 Gray, a Earth. 3 The bat. * Dash 
s Thin white frost. ^ Vagrant ' Merry meet- 
ing. 8 Odd garments. 

* A circular iron plate, on which, when 
hung over the fire, oaten cakes are baked. 

t The aumos, or beggar's dish, was a wood« 
en platter or bowl, whicri every mendicant 
carried in the olden time as part of his pro- 
fessional accoutrements. It was used to re« 
ceive the aumos or alms in the shape of oat 
meal, broth, milk, or porridge. 

t A cadger is a vendor of various kinds of 
merchandise, who employs a horse or ass m 
carrying about bis wares from dace to placib 



66 



BURNS' WORKS. 



J 



And slicrw my cuts and scars wherever 
I come: 

This here was for a wench, and that 
other in a tren<*,h, 

When welcoming the French at the 
sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

My 'prenticeship I past where my lead- 
er breathed his last. 

When the bloody die is cast on the 
heights of Abi-am ; § 

I served out my trade when the gallant 
game was play'd 

A.nd the Moro | low was laid at the 
sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the 
floating batteries, T[ [a limb; 

And there I left for witness an arm and 

Yet let my country need me, with Elliot 
* *to head me, [of the drum. 

ITl clatter on my stumps at the sound 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

And now though I must beg with a 
wooden arm and leg, [my bum. 

And many a tatter'd rag hanging over 

I'm as happy with my wallet, my bot- 
tle and my callet, . [drum. 

As when I used in scarlet to follow a 
Lai de dandle, &c. 

What though with hoary locks I must 
stand the winter shocks. 

Beneath the woods and rocks often- 
times for a home. 

When the t'other bag I sell, and the 
t'other bottle tell, [of a drum. 

1 could meet a troop of hell at the sound 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

HECITATTVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars^ sheuk 
Aboon the chorus roar; 



» Rafters. 

§ The battle-field in front of Quebec, where 
General Wolfe fell in the arms of victory in 
X759. 

I El Moro, a strong castle defending Havan- 
nah, which was gallantly stormed when the 
city was taken by the British in 1762. 

^ The destruction of the Spanish floating 
batteries during the famous siege of Gibraltar 
in 1782, on which occasion the gallant Captain 
Curtis rendered the most signal service. 

** George Augustus Elliot, created Lord 
Heathfield, for his memorable defence of Gib- 
ralur, during the siege of three years. He 
died in 1790^ 



While frighted rattons^ ''back ward leul^ 4 
And seek the benmost" bore; 

A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirled out " Encore " 
But up arose the martial chuck. 

And laid the loud uproar. 



Tune—" Soldier laddie." 
I once was a maid, though I cannot tell 

when, [men; 

And still ray delight is in proper young 
Some one of a troop of dragoons wa4 

my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of asodgerladdie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 
The first of my loves was a swaggering 

blade, [trade j 

To rattle the thundering drum was his 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek waa 

so ruddy, [laddie. 

Transported I was with my sodger 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

But the godly old chaplain left him m 
the lurch, [the church; 

The sword I forso'^k for the sake of 

He ventured the soul, and I risk'd the 
body, [laddie. 

'Twas then I proved false to my'sodger 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified 
sot, [got; 

The regiment at large for a husband I 

From the gilded spontoon to the fife 1 
was ready, 

I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

But the peace it reduced me to beg in 

despair, [fair^ 

Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham 
His rags regimental they flutter'd so 

gaudy, 
My heart it rejoiced at a sodger laddie. 

Sing. Lal de lal, &c. 
And now I have lived — I know not hovr 

long, 
And still I can join in a cup or a song; 
But whilst with both hands I can hold 

the glass steady, [laddi«| 

Here's to tliee, my hero, my sodgefj 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 



WRats. 



** Innennoat. 



poems; 



ol 



RECITATIYO. 

Poor merry Andrew in the neuk, 

Sat guzzliug wi' a' tinkler liizzie; 
They miud't na wha the chorus teuk, 

Between themselves they were sac 
busy; 
At length wi' drink and courting dizzy 

He stoiter'd up and made a face; 
Then turn'd and laid a smack on Griz- 
zie, [grimace: — 

Syne tuned his pipes wi' grave 

AIR. 

Tune — " Auld Sir Symon." 
Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 

Sir Knave is a fool in a session; 
He's thery but a 'prentice, I trow, 

But :w am a fool by profession. 

My grannie she bought me a beuk, 
And I held awa' to the school ; 

I fear I my talent misteuk, 

But what will ye hae of a fool ? 

For drink I would venture my neck, 
A hizzie's the half of my craft. 

But what could ye other expect, 
Of ane that's avowedly daft ? 

I ance was tied up like a stirk,'^ 
For civilly swearing aud quaffing! 

1 ance was abused in the kirk, 
For touzlingi^ a lass i' my daffin,^-* 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name wi' a jeer; 

There's even, I'm tauld, i' the court 
A tumbler ca'd the Premier. 

Observed ye yon reverend lad 
Mak faces to tickle the mob ? 

He rails at our mountebank squad — 
It's rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion I'll tell, 
For faith I'm confoundedly dry; 

The chiel that's a fool for himsel, 
Gude Lord ! he's far dafter than I. 

RECITATIYO. 

Then neist outspak a rauclc carlin,'^ 
Wha ken't f u' weel to cleek the ster- 
ling, 
For monie a pursie she had hookit, 
And had in monie a well been doukit. 



" Bullock. 1' Rumpling. 
► Stout Bedlam, 



^* Merriment. 



Her dove had been a Highland laddie. 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie l^^ 
WV siiihs and sobs she thus began 
To wail her bruw John Highland- 
man: — 

AIR. 

Tune — "Oh, an ye were Dead, Guid 
man !" 

A Highland lad my love was born. 
The Lawland laws he held in scoin; 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandmaa 



Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman 
Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

With his philabeg and tartan plaid. 
And guid claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan. 
My gallant braw John Highlandman 
Sing, hey, &c. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And lived like lords and ladies gay; 
For a lawland face he feared none. 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

They banished him beyond the sea. 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
A down my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

But, oh ! they catch'd him at the lastj 
And bound him in a dungeon fast; 
My curse upon them every one. 
They've hang'd my braw John Higli 
landman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return; 
Nae comfort but a hearty can. 
When I think on John Highlandmaa 
Sing, hey &c. 

RECITATIYO. 

A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, 
Wha used at trysts and fairs to driddle,'*' 
Her strappin' limb and gaucy middle 
(He reach'd nae higher) 

— ^ 

" The gallows. i^ Play, 



BURNS' WORKS. 



] 



Had holed liis heartie like a riddle, 
And blawn't oq lire. 

Wi' hand on Launch, and upward ee, 
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, 
Then in an arioso key. 

The wee Apollo, 
Bet off wi' allegretto glee 

His giga solo. 

AIK. 

Tune — " Whistle owre the lave o't." 
Let me ryke^^ up to dight'^ that tear, 
And go wi' me and be my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

CHORUS. 

I am a fiddler at my trade. 
And a' the tunes that e'er I played, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
Was whistle owre the lave o't. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there. 
And oh ! sae nicely 's we will fare; 
We'll bouse about till Daddy Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o't. 
1 am, &c. 

Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke. 
And sun oursels about the dike, 
And at our leisure, when ye like, 
We'll whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

But bless me wi' your heaven o' charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairms. 
Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms. 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, &c. 

KECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy caird,*"* 
As weel as poor gut-scraper; 

He taks the fiddler by the beard. 
And drows a roosty rapier — 

He swore by a' was swearing worth. 
To speet him like a pliver,:}::}: 

T^less he wad from that time forth 
Relinquish her for ever. 

Wi' ghastly ee, poor Tweedle-dee 
Upon his hunkers'^^ bended, 

And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, 
And sae the quarrel ended. 



" Reach. " Wipe, s" Tinker. 
tt To spit him like a plover. 



Hams. 



But though his little lieart did grieve 
When round the tinkler press'd hei. 

He feign'd to snirtle" in his sleeve. 
When thus the caird address'd her:— 

AIR. 
Tune — " Clout the Caudron." 
My bonny lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station : 
I've travell'd round all Christian groumd 

In this my occupation, 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd 

In many anoble squadron: [march'd 
But vain they search 'd, when off 1 
To go and clout'^^ the caudron, 

I've ta'en the gold, &c. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'dimp, 

Wi' a' his noise and ca'prin', 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron. 
And by that stoup, my faith andhoup. 

And by that dear Kilbagie, 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er weet my cragie."^-* 

And by that stoup, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

The caird prevail 'd — the unblusliing 
fair 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi' love, o'ercome sae sair, 

And partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man of spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair. 

And made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night 

But urchin Cupid shot a shaft 

That play'd a dame a shavie,^* 
The fiddler raked her fore and aft. 

Aliint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft. *• 

Though limping wi' the spavie. 
He hirpled up, and lap like daft, 

And shored'^' them Dainty Davie 
O' boot that night. 
He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Though Fortune sair upon him laid. 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had nae wish but — to be glad. 

Nor want but — when he thirsted; 

22 Laugh. 23 Patch. «* Throat. «* ^ 
i trick. 26 A ballad-singer. .2^ Offered, 



POEMS. 



51 



He hated nought but — to be sad, 
And thus the muse suggested 
His sang that night. 

AIR. 

Tune — " For a* that, and a' that." 
[ am a bard of no regard, 

Wi' gentle folks, and a' that: 
But Homer-like, the glowrin' byke,*^ 

Frae town to town I draw that. 

CHORUS. 

For a' that, and a* that, 
And twice as muckle's a* that; 

I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', 
I've wife eneugli for a' that. 

I never drank the Muses' stank,^' 
Castalia's burn, and a' that; 

fcut there it streams, and richly reams, 
M.y Helicon, I ca' that. 

For a' that, &c. 

G/eat love I bear to a' the fair, 
Their humble slave, and a' that; 

But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, &c. 

ji raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 
Wi' mutual love, and a' that: 

But tor how lang the flee may stang. 
Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &c. 

Their tricks and craft hae Jut lue daft. 
They've ta'en me in, and - that; 

But clear your decks, and here's the 
sex ! 
I like the jads for a' that. 

CHORUS. 

For a' that, and a' that, 

And twice as muckle's a' that; 
My dearest bluid, to dothemguid, 
They're welcome till't for a' that. 

RECITATIVO. 

So sang the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
Shook wi' a thunder of applause, 

Re-echoed from each mouth; 
They toom'd their pokes and pawn'd 

their duds. 
They scarcely left to co'er their f uds, 

To quench their lowin' drouth, ^^ 

»• Th? staring cro>va, '•Pool, ?» Burning 



Then owre again, the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request. 
To loose his pack and wale^^ a sang, 
A ballad o' the best; 
He, rising, rejoicing. 

Between his two Deborah s. 
Looks round him, and found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 



Tune. — " Jolly Mortals, fill 
Glasses. '* 



youi 



See ! the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial ragged ring ! 

Round and round take up the chorus. 
And in raptures let us sing. 

chorus. 

A fig for those by law protected f 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 
Churches built to please the priest. 

What is title ? what is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter how or where ! 

Afig, &c 

With the ready trick and fable. 
Round we wander all the day: 

And at night, in barn or stable. 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 

Afig, &c. 

Does the train -attended carriage 
Through the country lighter rove ? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love? 
A fig, &a 

Life is all a variorum, 
We regard not how it goes. 

Let them cant about decorum 
Who have characters to lose. 

A fig, &c. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets > 
Here's to all the wandering train ! 

Here's our ragged brats and callets I 
One and all cry out — Amen ! 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected. 

Churches built to please the prieit. 

»» Choose, 



80 



BURNS' WORKS. 



1 



THE VISION. 

This beautiful poem depicts, m the highest 
strain of poetical eloquence, a struggle 
which was constantly going on in the poet s 
mind between the meanness and poverty of 
his position and his higher aspirations and 
hopes of mdependence, which he found it 
impossible ever to realize. It must have 
been evident to his mind that poetry alone 
was not to elevate him above the reach of 
worldly cares ; yet in this poem, as in many 
others, he accepts the poetical calling as its 
own sweet and sufficient reward. In the 
appearance of ihe Muse of Coila, the matter 
is settled after a fashion as beautiful as po- 
etical. In the Kilmarnock edition of his 
poems, the allusion to his Jean in his descrip- 
tion of the Muse's appearance ;— 

** Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen, 
And such a leg ! my bonny Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 
Nane else cam near it—" 

was replaced by the name of another charm- 
er, in consequence, it is presumed, of his 
quarrel with her father. When the Edin- 
burgh edition appeared, his old affections 
had again asserted their sway, and her 
name was restored. In a letter to Mrs. Dun- 
lop, dated February, 1788, the poet, in allu- 
sion te Miss Rachel Dunlop, one of her 
daughters, being engaged on a painting 
representing "The Vision," says :— " I am 
highly flattered by the news you tell lae of 
Coila. I may say to the fair painter who 
does me so much honor, as Dr. Beattie says 
to Ross, the poet, of his Muse Scota, from 
which, by the by, I took the idea of Coila ; 
('tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scottish 
dialect, which perhaps you have never 
seen) ;— 

* Ye shake your head, but o' my fegs, 
Ye've set auld Scota on her legs • 
Lang had she hen wi, bufifs and fiegs, 

Bumbazed and dizzie ; 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs— 

Wae's me, poor hizzie P' 

DUAN FIRST.* 

The sun had closed the winter day, 
The curlers quat their roaring play,f 



* Duan^ a term of Ossian's for the different 
divisions of a digressive poem. See his 
*' Cathloda," vol. li. of Macpherson's transla- 
tion.— B. 

t Curling- is a wintry game peculiar to the 
southern counties of Scotland. Wlien the ice 
is sufficiently strong on the lochs, a number of 
individuals, each provided with a large stone 
of the shape of an oblate spheroid, smoothed 
at the bottom, range themselves on two sides, 
and being furnished with handles, play 
against each otner. The game resembles 
bowls, but is much more animated, and keenly 
en-oyed. It is well characterized by the poe't 



And hungered maiikin ta'en her way :f 
To kail-yards green, 

While faithless snavvs ilk step betray 
Whare she has been. 

The thrasher's weary flingin'-tree^ 
The lee-lang day had tired me; 
And when the day had closed his ee. 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence,:}: right pensivelio, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,' 
I sat and eyed the spewing reek,^ 
That fiU'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin'; 
And- heard the restless rattons^ squeak 

About the riggin'. 

All in this mottie,^ misty clime, 
I backward mused on wasted time, 
How I had spent my youthfu' prime. 

And done naething. 
But stringin' blethers^ up in rhyme. 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might by this hae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank, and clerkit 

My cash -account: 
While here, half -mad, half fed, half- 
sarkit, 

Is a',th' amount. 

I started, muttering, Blockhead ! coof !• 
And heaved on high my waukit loof,' 
To swear by a' yon starry roof. 
Or some rash aith. 
That I henceforth would be rhyme- 
proof 

Till my last breath — 

When, click ! the string the sneck" 

did draw 
And jee ! the door gaed to the wa'; < 
And by my ingle-lowe I saw. 

Now bleezin bright, 
A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw. 

Come full in sight. ^ 

Ye needna doubt, I held my whisht; 
The infant aith, half-form'd, was 

crusht. 

1 The flail, * Fireside. ^ Smoke. * Smoke. 
5 Rats. * Hazy. ^ Nonsense. « Fool. » Hard# 
ened palm. "» Latch. 

X The parlour of the farm-house of Mos* 
giel— the only apartment besides tbc kitchea 



POEMS. 



61 



Igiower'd as eerie's I'd been duslit" 

■ In some wild glen ; 
Wlien sweet, like modest Worth, she 
bluiikt, 

And stepped ben.''' 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted gracefu' round her 

brows — 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token: 
ilnd come to stop those reckless vows. 

Would soon be broken. 

A * hare-brain'd sentimental trace' 
Was strongly marked in her face, 
A wildly- witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her; 
Her eye e'en turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honour. 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen. 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen; 
And such a leg ! . my bonny Jean 

Could only peer it; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight^^, and 
clean, 

Nane else cam near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling 
threw 

A lustre grand ; 
And seem'd, to my astonish'd view, 

A well-known land. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; 
There, mountains to the skies were 

tOMt, 

He/e, tumbling billows mark'd the 
coast, 

With surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 
' The lordly dome. 

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetched 

floods 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds ^* 
Auld hermit Ayr staw '* through his 
woods, 

On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 
With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 

"Frightened. ^^ into the room, i^ Hand- 
Some, weU-formed, i* Sounds, »* Stole, 



An ancient borough § rear'd her head •, 
Still, as in Scottisli story read. 

She boasts a race 
To every nobler virtue bred. 

And polish'd graco. 
By stately tower or palace fair. 
Or ruins pendent in the air. 
Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to 
dare, 

With features stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel. 
To see a race | heroic wheel, 
And brandish round the deep -dyed 
steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back- recoiling seem'd to reel 
Their suthron foes. 

His country's saviour,*^ mark him 

well ! 
Bold Richardton's ** heroic swell ; 
The chief on Sarkf f who glorious fell. 

In high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptred Pictish 

shade:}:| 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race, portray 'd 

In colors strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featured, undismayed 

They strode along. 
Through many a wild romantic grove §§ 

§ The town of Ayr. 

II The Wallaces.— B. 

1 Sir William Wallace.— B. 

** Adam Wallace of Richard ton, cousin to 
the immortal preserver of Scottish independ- 
ence.— B. 

tt Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was sec- 
ond in command, under Douglas, Earl of 
Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of 
Sark, fought in 1448. That glorious victory- 
was principally owing to the judicious con- 
duct and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird 
of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the 
action. — B. 

Xt Coilus, king of the Picts, from whom the 
district of Kyle is said to take its name, lies 
buried, as tradition says, near the family seat 
of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, where his 
burial-place is still shown.— B. 

§§ Barskimming, the seat of the late Lord 
Justice-Clerk.— B. (Sir Thomas Miller of 
Glenlee, afterwards President of the Court of 
Session.) ^ 



62 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Near many a hennit- fancied cove, 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love,) 

In musing mood. 
An aged judge, I saw him rove. 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe 
The learned sire and son I saw,|||| 
To nature's God and nature's law 

They gave their lore, 
This, all its source and end to draw ; 

That, to adore. 

Brydone's brave ward T[*j[ I well could 

spy. 

Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye : 
W^ho call'd on Fame, low standing by, 

To hand him on. 
Where many a patriot name on high 

And hero shone. 

DUAN SECOND. 

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heavenly seeming fair ; 
A whispering throb did witness bear 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet : — 
" All hail ! my own inspired bard ! 
In me thy native Muse regard ; 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Thus poorly low ! 
I come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 

" Know, the great genius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band, 
Wlio, all beneath his' high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Their labours ply. 
*' They Scotia's race among them 

share ; 
Some fire the soldier on to dare : 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart : 
Some teach the bard a darling care. 

The tunefu' art. 
**'Mong swelling floods of reeking 
gore, 

nil The Rev. Dr. Matthew Stewart, the cel- 
ebrated mathematician, and his son, Mr. 
Dugald Stewart, the elegant expositor of the 
Scottish school of metaphysics, an, .lere meant, 
their villa of Catrine being situate4 9P th§ 

Ayf. 

^ 55 Colonel Fuliartoa.-B, 



They ardent, kindling spirits, pour ; 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar. 

They, sightless, stand. 
To mend the honest patriot-lore. 

And grace the hand. 

" And when the bard, or hoary sag*. 
Charm or instruct the future age. 
They bind the wild, poetic rage. 

In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

"Hence Fullarton, the brave an4 

young ; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His Minstrel lay ; 
Or tore, with noble ardor stung. 

The sceptic's bays. 

*' To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human kind. 
The rustic bard, the laboring hind, 

The artisan ; 
All choose, as various they're inclined, 

The various man. 

" Wlien yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threatening storm some, strongly, 

rein ; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain. 

With tillage skill; 
And some instruct the shepherd -train. 

Blithe o'er the hill. 

" Some hint the lover's harmless wile; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile 
Some soothe_the labourer's weary toil 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage -scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

" Some bounded to a district-space. 
Explore at large man's infant race. 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic bard: 
And careful note each opening graoe^ 

A guide and guard. 

" Of these am I — Coila my name, !' 
And this district as mine I claim. 
Where once the Campbells,*** chiefii 
of fame, 

Held ruling power, 

*** The Loudoun branch of the Campbells 
is here meant Mossgiel, and much of thf 
neighbouring ground was then the properjj 

of U»e Earl of Coudon. 



POEMS. 



I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame. 
Thy natal hour. 

** With future hope, I oft would gaze, 

Fond, on thy little early ways, 

Thy rudely-caroll'd, chiming phrase, 

In uncouth rhymes. 
Fired at the simple, artless lays. 

Of other times. 

•* I saw thee seek the sounding shore. 
Delighted with the dashing roar; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove through the sky, 
I saw grim natures visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

"Or when the deep green-mantled 

earth 
Warm cherish'd every floweret's birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In every grove, 
I saw thee eye the general mirth 
* With boundless love. 

*' When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their evening joys. 

And lonely stalk. 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

• When youthful love, warm-blushing, 

strong 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adored Name, 
( iaught thee how to pour in song. 

To soothe thy flame. 

*'I saw thy pulse's maddening play. 
Wild, send thee Pleasure's devious 

way, 
Misled my Fancy's meteor-ray, 
By passion driven; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from Heaven. 

" I taught thy manners painting strains, 
rhe loves, the ways of simple swains, 
nil now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends; 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains, 

Become thy friends. 

"Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thoxason's landscape 
glow J 



Or wake the bosom-melting throe, 
With Shenstone's art, 

Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 
Warm on the heart. 

"Yet all beneath the unrivall'd rose, 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows. 
Though large forest's monarch throws 

His army shade. 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows. 

Adown the glade. 

" Then never murmur nor repine; 
Strive m thy humble sphere to shine; 
And, trust me, not Potosi's mine, 

Nor kings' regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine — 

A rustic bard. 

•^ To give my counsels all in one. 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan,* 
Preserve the dignity of man, 

With soul erect; 
And trust the universal plan 

Will all protect. 

"And wear thou this," she solemn said, 
And bound the holly round mj head; 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play; 
And, Uke a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



A WINTER NIGHT, 

" Poor naked wretches, whcjreso'er yo» 

are. 
That bide the pelting of the pitilesf 

storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads, and urv. 

fed sides, 
Your loop'd and window'd raggednessj 

defend you, 
From seasons such as these ?" 

—Shakespeare. 

When biting Boreas, fell' and doure,* 

Sharp shivers through the leafless 

bower; [glower^ 

When Phoebus gies a short-lived 

Far south the lift,'' 
Dim-darkening through the flaky 
shower. 

Or whirling drift; 

A e night the storm the steeples rocked 
Poor labour sweet in sleep \\aslocke(^ 

— < 



» Keen. ^ Stem. ' Stare. * Sky, 



u 



BURNS' Works. 



While burns, wi' snawy wreaths xip- 
choktJd, 

Wild-eddying swirl, 
^r through the mining outlet bocked,* 

Down headlong hurl. 

Listening the doors and winnocks^ 

rattle, 
t thought me on the ourie'' cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle^ 

O' winter war. 
And through the drift, deep-lairing 
sprattle,^ 

Beneath a scaur. ^^ 

Ilk happing" bird, wee, helpless thing. 
That, in the merry months o' spring. 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cower thy chittering 
wing. 

And close thy ee ! 

Even you, on murdering errands toiFd, 
Lone from your savage homes exiled, 
The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cot 
spoil'd. 

My heart forgets. 
While pitiless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign. 
Dark muffled, view'd the dreary plain; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive 
train. 

Rose in my soul. 
When on my ear this plaintive strain. 

Slow, solemn, stole: — 

*' Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier 

gust ! 
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united, 

shows 
More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 
Vengeful malice unrepenting, 
Than heaven-illumined man on brother 

man bestows ! 

•' See stern Oppression's iron grip. 

Or mad Ambition's gory hand, 
Bending, like blood-hounds from the 

slip, 
Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land! 



6 Belched. 
• Dashing storm 
»» Hopping, 



6 Windows. ' Shivering 

" Struggle. " Clif 



Even in the peaceful rural vale. 

Truth, weeping, tells the mournful 

tale, [her side. 

How pamper'd Luxury, Flattery by 

The parasite empoisoning her ear, 

With all the servile wretches in the 

rear, [wide; 

Looks o'er proud Property, extended 

And eyes the simple rustic hind. 
Whose toil upholds the glittering 
show, 
A creature of another kind, 
Some coarser substance unrefined, 
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thua 
vile, below. 

" Where, where is Love's fond, tendei 

throe. 
With lordly Honour's lofty brow, 

The powers you proudly own ? 
Is there, beneath Love's noble name. 
Can harbour dark the selfish aim, 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden innocence a prey 

To love- pretending snares. 
This boasted Honour turns away, 
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway. 

Regardless of the tears and unavail- 



ing prayers 



! [squalid nest, 

Perhaps this hour, in misery's 
She strains your infant to her joyless 

breast, [rocking blast f 

And with a mother's fears shrinks at tha 

" O ye who, sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves 
create, [fate 

Think for a moment on his wretched 
Whom friends and fortune quite dis. 
own. [call, 

III satisfied keen nature's clamourous 
Stretch'd on his straw he lays him- 
self to sleep, [chinky wall, 
While through the ragged roof an(^ 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles tha 
drif ty heap ! 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pin*^ 

Guilt, erring man, relenting view 1 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch, already crushed low 
By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow t 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite tii^ 
bliss r 



POEMS. 



6i 



t heard na mair, for chanticleer 
Shook off the pouthery snaw, 

A.nd hail'd the morning with a cheer, 
A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impress'd my 
mind — 

Through all His works abroad, 
The heart benevolent and kind 

The most resembles God. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 

this poem, written after the manner of Fer- 
gusson's " Caller Water," is not to be taken 
as evidence of the poet's feelings and prac- 
tices. It was suggested, along with the fol- 
lowing poem, by the withdrawal of an Act 
of Parliament empowering Duncan Forbes 
of Culloden to distil whisky on his barony 
of Ferintosh, free of duty, in return for 
services rendered to the Government. This 
privilege was a source of great revenue to 
the family: and as Ferintosh whisky was 
cheaper than that produced elsewhere, it 
became very popular, and the name Ferin- 
tosh thus became something like a syno- 
nyme for wliisky over the country. Com- 
pensation for the loss of privilege, to the 
tune of £21,580, was awarded to the Forbes 
family by a jury. Attention was further 
drawn to " the national beverage " at this 
time by the vexatious and oppressive way 
in which the Excise laws were enforced at 
the Scotch distilleries. Many distillers aban- 
doned the business ; and as barley was 
beginning to fall in price in consequence, 
the county gentlemen supported \he distil- 
lers, and an act was passed relieving the 
trade from the obnoxious supervision. 
These circumstances gave the poet his cue ; 
and the subject was one calculated to evoke 
his wildest humour. Writing to Robert 
Muir, Kilmarnock, he says, " I here enclose 

you my ' Scotch Drink,' and may the 

follow with a blessing for your edification. 
I hope some time before we hear the gowk, 
[cuckoo] to have the pleasure of seeing you 
at Kilmarnock, when I intend we shall have 
a gill between us in a mutchkin stoup, 
Drhich will be a great comfort and consola- 
ion to your humble servant, R. B." 

** Gie him strong drink, until he wink 
That's sinking in despair ; 
And liquor guid to fire his bluid, 
That s prest wi' grief and care ; 

There let him bouse, and deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts. 

And minds his griefs no more." 
— Solomon's Proverbs xxxi. 6, 7. 

Let other poets raise a fracas' 
'Bout vines, and wines, and drucken 
Bacchus, 



And crabbit names and stories wrack' 
ns. 

And grate our tng,^ [us, 
I sing the juice Scotch beare ran mah 

In glass or jug. 

thou, my j\Iuse ! guid auld Scotch 
drink, [thou jink,» 

Whether through wimplin'* worm* 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the bi'iilj 

In glorious faem. 
Inspire me, till 1 lisp and wink, 

To sing thy name I 

Let husky wheat t}ie haughs adorn. 
And aits set up their awnie horn,* 
And peas and beans, at e'en or mon^ 
Perfume the plain, 

1 eze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain 1 

On the aft Scotland chop's her cood, 
In souple scones,' the wale o' foodl 
Or tumblin' in the boilin' flood 

Wi' kail and beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's 
blood. 

There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, and keeps us 

livin'; 
Though life's a gift no worth receivin' 
When heavy dragg'd -vvi' pine* and 
grievin'; 

. But oil'd by thee. 
The wheels o* life gae down-hill, 
scrievin'^ 

Wi' rattlin' glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear; 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Caret 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair» 

At's weary toil; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair, 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft clad in massy siller weed, '® 
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head; 
Yet humbly kind in time o' need. 

The poor man's wine,* 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread. 

Thou kitchens" fine. 



2 Bother. 3 Ear. « Crooked. » Steal, 
8 Beard. ^ Cakes e Pam. » Gliding glee. 
somely. *• Silver jugs. " ReUshest. 

* Ale is meant, which is frequently mixed 
With porridge instead of milk. 



06 



BURNg' WORKS. 



TTiou art the life o' public haunts; 
But thee, what were our fairs and 

rants ? 
Even goodly meetings o' the saunts. 

By thee inspired, 
When gaping they besiege the tents.f 

Are doubly fired. 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
Oh, sweetly then thou reams the horn 

in! 
Or reekin' a new year morning 

In cog or bicker, 12 
And just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, 

And gusty sucker !^"^ 

Wlien Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 
And plowmen gather wi' their graith,'"* 
Oh, rare ! to see thee fizz and f reath 

I" the lugget caup !^^ 
Then Burnewin'^ comes on like death 

At everj chap. 

Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel. 

The strong forehammer. 
Till block and studie ring and reel, 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin' weanies" see the light, 
rhou maks the gossips clatter bright, 
How fumblin' cuifs'^ their dearies 
slight; 

Wae worth the name 1 
Nae howdie'^ gets a social night. 

Or plack-*' frae them. 

When neibors anger at a plea, 
And just as wud as wud"^' can be, 
How easy can the barley -bree 

Cement the quarrel ! 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee 

To taste the barrel. 

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte"^"^ her countrymen wi' treason! 
But mony daily weet their weason^^ 
Wi' liquors nice. 



*2 Wooden vessels. ^^ Toothsome sugar. 
^4 Implements. »* Cup with ears. '« The 
blacksmith. *' Screammg children. '^ Awk- 
ward fools. " Midwife. 20 Com. 21 Mad. 
"Charge. »s Throat. 

+ The tents for refreshment at out-of door 
comraunioos. (3«e " Holy Fair," 



And hardly, in a winter's season. 
E'er spier^** her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash. 
Fell source o' mony a pain and brash !^* 
'Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken 
hash-^ 

O' half his days; 
And sends, beside, auld Scotland's cafk 

To her worst faes, ♦ 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless devils like mysel, 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' w'mes to mell,^' 

Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blether wrench. 
And gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his ^runtle wi' a glunch-^* 

O' your disdain, 
Out-owre a glass o' whisky punch 

Wi' honest men. 

O whisky ! soul o' plays and pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless 
cranks 

Are my poor verses I 
Thou comes — they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a — es. 

Tliee, Ferintosh ! oh, sadly lost 1 
Scotland lament frae coast to coast ! 
Now colic grips, and barkin' hoast,^' 

May kill us a'; 
For loyal Forbes's charter'd boast, 

Is ta'en awa' ! 

Tliae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the wlvisky stells their prize i 
Haud up thy han', deil ! ance, twice, 
thrice ! 

There, seize the blinkers!^* 
And bake them up in brunstane pies 
Foiva30or damn'd drinkersi. 

Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, and whisky gill, 
And rowth^^ o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak a' the rest. 
And deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs the best. 



24 Ask. 25 Sickness. 2c Rough fellow 
2T Meddle. 28 pace with a grin. 29 Coughs 
3" A contemptuous term, ^^ Abuadftug^, 



POEMS. 



<flf 



REMORSE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

TiMt following lines occur in an early Com- 
monplace-book of the poet's, and probably 
•elate to the consequences of his first serious 
error :— 

Of all tlie numerous ills that hurt our 
peace, [with anguish, 

That press the soul, or wring the mind 
Beyond comparison, the worst are those 
I'hat to our folly or our guilt we owe. 
In every other circumstance, the mind 
Has this to say — ' ' It was no deed of 

mine;" 
But when, to all the evil of misfortune, 
This sting is added — ' ' Blame thy fool- 
ish self," [morse — 
Or, worser far, the pangs of keen re- 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness 
of guilt — • [others, 
Of guilt perhaps where we've involved 
The young, the innocent, who fondly 
lo'ed us, [of ruin ! 
Nay, more — that very love their cause 
O burning hell! in all thy store of tor- 
ments, 
There's not a keener lash! [his heart 
Lives there a man so firm, who, while 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 
Can reason down its agoni?,ing throbs; 
JLnd, after proper purpose of amend- 
ment, [to peace? 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts 
Oh, happy, happy, enviable man! 
Oh, glorious magnanimity of soul! 



ANSWER TO A POETICAL 
EPISTLE, 

SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY A TAILOR. 

A tailor in the neighbourhood of Mauchline 
having taken it upon him to send the poet a 
rhymed homily on his loose conversation 
and irregular behaviour, received the fol- 
lowmg Imes in reply to his lecture : — 

Wliat ails ye now, ye lousie bitch, 
To thrash my back at sic a pitch? 
Losh, man! hae mercy wi' your natch,' 

Your bodkin's bauld, 
I didna suffer half sae much 

Frae Daddie Auld. 

* Grip. 



What though at times, when I groT* 

crouse,'^ 
I gie the dames a random pouse, 
Is that enough for you to souse' 

Your servant sae? pouso 

Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the- 

And jag-the-flae. 

King David, o' poetic brief, 

Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief 

As fill'd his after life wi' grief 

And bluidy rants. 
And yet he's rank'd among the chief 

O' lang-syne saunts. 

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,* 
My wicked rhymes, aud drucken rants. 
I'll gie, auld cloven Clootie's haunts ■ 

An unco slip yet. 
And snugly sit among the saunts 

At Davie's hip yet. 

But fegs,5 the session says I maun 

Gae fa upon anither plan. 

Than garrin' lasses cowp the cran. 

Clean heels owre gowdy. 
And sairly thole^ their mither's ban 

Afore the howdy.' 

This leads me on, to tell for sport. 
How I did wi' the session sort: 
Auld Clinkum at the inner port 

Cried three times — " Robin! 
Come hither lad, and answer for't, 

Ye're blamed for jobbin'." 

Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on. 
And snooved^ awa' before the session^ 
I made an open, fair confession — 

I scorned to lie; [sion^ 
And syne Mess John, beyond expres. 

Fell foul o' me. 

A furnicator-loon he call'd me. 

And said my f aut frae bliss expell'd me, 

I owTi'd the tale was true he tell'd me, 

" But what the matter?" 
Quo' I, " I fear unless ye geld me, 

I'll ne'er be better." 

"Geld you!" quo' he, "and what fof 

no? 
If that your right hand, leg or toe. 
Should ever prove your spiritual foe. 
You should remember 



2 Happv. 
' Midwife. 



3 Scold. ■'Tricks. 'Fa; th. *B9m 
" Sneaked 



BtmNS' WORKS 



To cut it aff — and what for no 

lour dearest member?" 

"Na, na," quo' I, " I'm no for tliat. 
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't; 
I' rather suffer for my faut, 

A hearty liewit. 
As sail owre hip as ye can draw't, 

Though I should rue it. 

*'0r gin ye like to end the bother. 
To please us a', I've just ae ither — 
When next \vi' yon lass 1 forgather, 

Whate'er betide it, 
I'll frankly gie her't a' thegither, 

And let her guide it." 

But, sir, this pleased them warst ava. 
And therefore, Tarn, when that I saw, 
1 said, " Guid night," and cam awa'. 

And left the session; 
X saw they were resolved a' 

On my oppression. 



THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY 
AND PRAYER 

TO THE SCOTCH KEPKESENTATIVES IN 
THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 

For an account of the circumstances which 
gave rise to the following lines, see the in- 
troduction to the poem entitled " Scotch 
Drink," p. 65. 

*' Dearest of distillations ! last and best ! 
How art thou lost !" 

— Parody on Milton. 

Ye Irish lords, ye knights and squires, 
Wha represent our brugli.s and shires. 
And doucely^ manage our affairs 

In parliament. 
To you a simple Bardie's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas! my roopit* Muse is hearse! ^ 
Your honours' heart wi' grief 'twad 

pierce. 
To see her sittin' on her a — e 

Low i' the dust, 
And scrachin'^f out prosaic verse 

And like to burst! 

* Soberly. 2 Hoarse. ^ Screaming hoarsely 
*-the cry of fowls when displeased. 

* A person with a sore throat and a dry 
tickling cough, is said to be roopy. 

t Some editors give this ' screechin', 
(screaming), but, taken in connection with 
the hoarseness, every one who has heard the 
word used will endorse our reading. 



Tell tjiem wha hae the chief directiolli 
ticotland and me s iu great affliction, 
E'er sin they laid that curst restriction 

On aqua vitse; [tiot* 

And rouse them up to strong convT- 

And move their pity. 

Stand forth and tell yon Prem'ei 

youth, X 
The honest, open, naked truth: 
Tell him o' mine and Scotia nd's drouth 

His servants humble; 
The muclde devil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble 1 

Does ony great man glunch^ and gloom"! 
Speak out, and never fash youj 

thoom !^ 
Let posts and pensions sink or soom'' 

Wi' them wha grant 'em. 
If honestly they canna come, 

Far better want 'em. 

In gath'rin' votes you werena slak, 
Now stand as tightly by your tack; 
Ne'er claw your lug,^ and fidge^ youi 
back. 

And hum and haw; 
But raise your arm, and tell your 
crack'" 

Before them a'. 

Paint Scotland greetin'^^ owre her 
thrissle: [whissle; 

Her mutchkin stoup as toom's'"'' a 
And damn'd excisemen in a bussle, 

Sezzin' a stell, 
Triumphant crushin' 't like a mussle 

Or lam pit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard smuggler right behini 

her, 
And cheek-f or-chow a chuffie'^ rintnsr 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there that bears the name o' Scot. 
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot^ 
To see his poor auld mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves. 
And plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 



♦Thirst. 6 Frown. * Trouble, your thumbi. 
' Swim. « Ear. « Shrug. »" Tale. " Weeg> 
ing. ^'^ Empty. '^ Fat-faced. 
% William PUU 



POEMS. 



Alas ! I'm but a nameless wiglit, 
Trod i' the mire and out o' siglit ! 
But could I like Montgomeries figlit,§ 

Or gab like Boswell, || 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw 
tight. 

And tie some hose well. 

God bless your honours, cant ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie carlin greet,'-* 
And no get warmly to your feet, 

And gar them hear it, 
And tell them wi' a patriot heat, 

Ye winna bear it ? 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws. 
To round the period and pause, 
And wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To make harangues; 
Then echo through St. Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster,^ a true-blue Scot I'se war- 
ran'; [ran;** 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilker- 
And that glib-gabbet'^ Highland baron. 

The laird o' Graham ;ff 
And ane, a chap that's damn'd auld- 
farran,'** 

Dundas his name. :{::{: 

Ersldne,§§ a spunkie" Norland baillie; 
True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay;l||j 
And Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie ; 

And mony ithers, 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithers. 



i* The cheerful old wife cry. (Scotland 
personified.) '* Ready-tongued. ^^ Sagaci- 
ous. 1^ Plucky. 

§ Colonel Hugh Montgomery, who had 
served in the American war, and was then 
B^presenting Ayrshire. 

II James Boswell of Auchinleck, the biogra- 
pher of Dr. Samuel Johnson. 

1 George Dempster of Dunnichen, Forfar- 
shire 

** Sir Adam Fergusson of Kilkerran, then 
member for Edinburgh. 
+t The Marquis of Graham. 

tt Henry Dundas, afterwards Viscount Mel- 
rille. 

§§ Thomas Erskine, afterwards Lord Ers- 
kinfe. 

!III Lord Frederick Campbell, brother to the 
Duke of Argyle, and Hay Campbell, then Lord 
Advocate. 



Thee, Sodger Hugh, my watchman 

stented,n[ 
If bardies e'er are represented; 
I ken if that your sword were wanted, 

Ye'd lend your hand: 
But when there's ought to say anent it, 

Ye're at a stand.*** 

Arouse, my boys: exert your mettle. 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle; 
Or, faith ! I'll wad my new plough, 
pettle,!"* 

Ye'll see't or lang, 
She'll teach you, wi' areekin' whittle," 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in crankous*"' 

mood, 
Her lost militia fired her bluid; 
(Deil na they never mair do good,) 

Play'd her that pliskie l^* 
And now she's like to rin red-wud^^ 

About her whisky. 

And, Lord, if ance they pit her till't. 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
And durk and pistol at her belt. 

She'll tak the streets. 
And rin her whittle to the hilt 

I' th' first she meets I 

For God's sake, sirs, then speak htr 

fair, 
And straik^3 j^gj, cannie wi' the hair. 
And to the muckle House repair 

Wi' instant speed, 
And strive, wi' a' your Vit and lear. 

To get remead. 

Yon illtongued tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you ^vi' his jeers and mocks; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caddie !''* 
And send him to his dicing-box 

And sportin' lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Bocon- 

nock'sfff 



18 Plough-staff. '9 Knife. 20 nuempered, 
restless. 21 Trick. 22 Mad. 23 Stroke. 
24 Fellow. 

tl Being member for Ayrshire, the poet 
speaks of him as his stented or vanguard 
watchman. 

*** This stanza alludes to Hugh Montgom- 
ery's imperfect elocution. 

tt+ William Pitt was the grandson of Robert 
Pitt of Boconnock, in CornwaU 



TO 



BURNS' WORKS. 



I'll be his debt twa mashlum ban- 

nocks^t^ 
And drink his health in auld Nanse 
Tinnock's,§§§ 

Nine times a week. 
If he some scheme, like tea and win- 
nocks, ||||| 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch. 
He needna fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudition. 
Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch. 

The coalition. ttH 



XtX Cakes made of oats, beans, and peas, 
with a mixture of wheat or barley flour. 

§§§ A worthy old hostess of the author's in 
Mauchline, where he sometimes studied pol- 
itics over a glass of guid old Scotch drink.— B. 
" Nanse Tinnock is long deceased, and no one 
has caught up her mantle. She is described as 
having been a true ale-wife^ in the proverbial 
sense of the word— close, discreet, civil, and 



no tale-teller. When any neighbouring wife 

ig "' ' ' ' 
Nanse would reply, shaking money in her 



came, asking if her John was here, ' 



ng wile 
Oh, no,' 



pocket as she spoke, ' he's no here,' implying 
to the querist that the husband was not m the 
house, while she meant to herself that he was 
not among her half-pence— thus keeping the 
word of promise to the ear, but breaking it to 
the hope. Her house was one of two stories, 
and had a front towards the street, by which 
Burns must have entered Mauchline from 
Mossgiel. The date over the door is 1744. It 
is remembered however, that Nanse never 
could understand how the poet should have 
talked of enjoying himself in her house ' nine 
times a week.' ' T^e lad' she said, ' hardly 
ever drank three half-mutchkins under her 
roof in his life.' Nanse, probably, had never 
heard of the poetical license. In truth, Nanse's 
hostelry was not the only one in Mauchline 
which Burns resorted to : a rather better-look- 
ing house, at the opening of the owgate, 
kept by a person named John Dove, and then, 
and still bearing the arms of Sir John White- 
ford of Ballochmyle, was also a haunt of the 
poet's having this high recommendation, that 
us back windows surveyed those of the house 
in which his 'Jean' resided. The reader will 
find in its proper place a droll epitaph on John 
Dove, in which tne honest landlord's religion 
is made out to be a mere comparative appreci- 
ation of his various liquors."— CkAMBERS. 

mill Pitt, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, 
had gained some credit by a measure intro- 
fiuced in 1784 for preventing smuggling of tea 
by reducing the duty, the revenue being com- 
pensated by a tax on windows, 

T5I Mixtie-maxtie is Scotch for a mixture 
\i incongruous elements. Hotch-potch is a 
Msh composed of all sotts of vegetables. 
This coalition, like many others since, was in 
die poet's eyes an unnatural banding together 
(f men of difiereat opinions. 



Auld Scotland has a raucle'^^ tongue; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung:''^® 
And if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part. 
Though by the neck she should be 
strung. 

She'll no desert. 

And now, ye chosen Five-and-For" 
ty,**** [ye; 

May still your mother's heart support 
Then though a minister grow dortyj^' 

And kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor and 
hearty. 

Before his face. 

God bless your honours a' your days 
Wi' sowps'^*^ o' kail and brats o' claise,** 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes^*^ 

That haunt St. Jamie's ! 
Your humble poet sings and prays 

While Rab his name is. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half -starved slaves in warmer skies 
See future wines, rich clust'ring, risej 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies. 

But blythe and frisky. 
She eyes her free-bom, martial boys, 

Tak afE their whisky. 

What though their Phoebus kinder 

warms, [charms t 

While fragrance blooms and beauty 

When wretches range, in famish'd 

swarms. 

The scented groves, 
Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms 
In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burthen on their shou* 

ther; 
They downa bide^i the stink o' pouther; 
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring 
swither^'^ 

To Stan' or rin, [ther,^* 
Till skelp— a shot— they're afF a' throu'- 
To save their skin. 

25 Rough. 2« Cudgel. 27 Sulky. 2« Spoon 
fuls. 29 Rags o' clothes. 30 Jackdaws, "The* 
dare not stand. ^2 Uncertainty. ^^ Pell mefi. 

**** The number of Scotch represent* 
lives. 



"POBMS: 



Bu t bring a Scotsman f rae his hill. 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
ISay, such is royal George's will, 

And there's the foe: 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 

ts^ae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings 
tease him; [him; 

Death comes — wi' fearless eye he sees 
vVi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him; 

And when he fa's, [him; 
flis latest draught o' breathin' lea'es 

In faint huzzas ! 

Sages their solemn een may steek,^ 
And raise a philosophic reek,^^ 
And physically causes seek. 

In clime and season; 
But tell me whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! 
Though whiles ye moistify your 

leather. 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine^® your dam; 
Freedom and whisky gang thegither! — 

Tak aff your dram! 



THE AULD FARMER'S NEW- YEAR 

MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS 

AULD MARE MAGGIE, 

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIP 

OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW 

YEAR. 

Most editors have alluded to the tenderness 
of Burns towards the lower animals ; this is 
a true poetic instinct, and with him was un- 
usually strong. The Ettrick Shepherd says, 
in a note to this poem .— " Burns must have 
been an exceedingly good and kind-hearted 
being ; for whenever he has occasion to 
address or mention any subordinate being, 
however mean, even a mouse or a flower, 
then there is a gentle pathos m his language 
that awakens the finest feelings of the 
heart." 

A QUID New- Year I wish thee, Maggie! 
Hae, there's a rip' to thy auld baggie. 
Though thou's howe-backit now and 
knaggie,^ 



»* Eyes may shut. ^^ Smoke. ^^ Lose. 

> A handful of corn in the staljc, ? JBent- 
backed ^d ridged. 



I've seen the day 
Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie 
Out owrethe lay.* 

Thou now thou's dowie,"* stifE and 

crazy, 
And thy auld hide's as white's a daisy 
I've seen thedappl't, sleek andglazie,^ 

A bonny gray: 
He should been tight that daur't t<^ 
raize*' thee, 

Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly buirdly, steeve and swank,' 
And set weel down a shapely shank. 

As e'er tread yird;® 
And could hae flown out-owre a stank,* 

Like ony bird. 

It's now some nine-and-twenty year. 
Sin' thou was my guid father's meer: 
He gied me thee, o' tocher'*> clear. 

And fifty mark; [gear, 
Though it was sma', twas weel 'won 

And thou was stark." 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin' wi' your Minnie," 
Though ye was trickle, slee, and fun 
nie. 

Ye ne'er was donsie'^ 
But hamely, towie, quiet, and cannie,'^ 

And unco sonsie. '^ 

That day ye pranced wi' muckle pride 
When ye bure hame my bonny bride: 
And sweet and gracef u' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle-Stewart* I could hae bragged'" 
wide. 

For sic a pair. 

Though now ye dow but hoyte and 

hoble," 
And wintle like a saumont coble,'* 
That daf ye was j inker' ^ noble. 
For heels and win'! 



' Grass-field. * Low-spirited. ' Shin- 
ing. 8 Excite, ' Stately, strong, active. 
» Earth. » Ditch. »o Dowry. »i Strong 
'2 Mother. ^^ Mischievous. ** Good 

natured. ^^ Engaging. •" Challenged 

1^ Can but limp and totter. >« Twist like 
the ungainly boat used by salmon fishers. 
»« Runner. 

*The district t?etween the Ayr and Um| 
Doon. 



TB 



BURNS' WO^KSr. 



And ran them till they a' did wauble,2° 
Far, far, behin'3 

When thou and I were young and 

skeigh,-^^ 
And stable -meals at fairs were dreigh,^^ 
How thou would prance, and snore and 
skreigh 

And tak the road ! 
Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh,^^ 
And ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, and I was mel- 
low, 
We took the road aye like a swallow: 
At Brooses'^ thou had ne'er a fellow. 

For pith and speed; 
But every tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 

The sma' droop-rumprt,^^ hunter cat- 
tle, [tle;26 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brat- 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their 
mettle. 

And gar't them whaizle" 
Nae whupnor spur, but just a wattle^^ 
O' saugh or hazle. 

Tliou was a noble fittie-lan',^' 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! 
Aft thee and I, in aught hours' gaun. 

In guid March weather, 
Hae tum'd sax rood beside our han', 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't, and fech't, and 
fiiskit,3o [kit,3i 

But thy auld tail thou wad hae whis- 
And spread abreed thy well-fill'd bris- 
ket, =^--^ 

Wi' pith and pow'r. 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and 
risket,^^ 

And slypet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, and snaws were 

deep. 
And threaten'd labour back to keep. 



20 Stagger— exhausted. 21 Mettlesome. 

22 Scarce '3 Aside. ^* Wedding races. 
'5 Sloping-backed. ^^ Might perhaps have 
beaten thee for a short race. ^"^ Wheeze. 
'8 A switch. 29 Yhe ^ear horse of the hind- 
most pair in the plough. '" Never pulled by 
fits or starts, or fretted. '^ Shaken. ^^ Breast. 
•» Till hard, dry hillocks would open with a 
tracking sound, the eaitJ* faUintr crertlv gver. 



I gied thy cog^ a wee bit heap 
Aboon the timmer; 

I kenn'd my Maggie wadna sleep 
For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit;^^ [it; 
The steyest^^ brae thou wad hae faced 
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breast. 
it,3' 

Then stood to blaw; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit,^* 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a';^' 
Four gallant brutes a." e'er did draw ; 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa'. 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund and 
twa. 

The vera warst. 

Mony a sair darg^*' we twa hae wrought. 
And wi* the weary warl' fought ! 
And mony an anxious day I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld trusty servan*. 
That now perhaps thou's less deser- 

vin*. 
And thy auld days may end in starvin*. 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stimpart,"*' I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte'*^ about wi' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether 

To some hain'd rig,^^ [er, 
Whare ye may nobly rax^ your leatU. 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



THE TWA DOGS : 

A TALE. 

Gilbert Bums says :— " The tale of ' The Twa 
Dogs ' was composed after the resolution ot 
publishing was nearly taken. Robert had a 
dog, which he called Luath, that was a 
great favourite. The dog had been killed 
by the wanton cruelty of some person, the 

3* Wooden measure. ^^ Stopped. ^' Steep, 
est. 3^ Nev^er leaped, reared, or started for 
ward. ^^ Quickened. ^^ My plough team 
are all thy children. *° Day's labour. *^ A 
measure of corn the eighth part of a bushel 
" Totter. *» Saved ridge of grass- ** Str?wU 



POEMS. 



71 



night before my father's death. Robert said 
to me that he should Hke to confer such im- 
mortahty as he could bestow on his old 
iViend Luath, and that he had a great mind 
to introduce something into the book under 
the title of ' Stanzas to the Memory of a 
Quadruped Friend ;' but this plan was given 
up for the poem as it now stands. Caesar 
was merely the creature of the poet's imag- 
ination, created for the purpose of holding 
chat with his favourite Luath." The factor 
who stood for h s portrait here was the same 
of whom he writes to Dr. Moore in 1787:— 
*' My indignation yet boils at the scoundrel 
factor's insolent threatening letters, which 
used to set us all in tears." All who have 
been bred in country districts will have no 
difSculty in finding parallels to the factor of 
the poem. Often illiterate and unfeeling, 
they think to gain the favour of the laird by 
an over-zealous pressure on poor but honest 
tenants, who, if gently treated, would 
struggle through their difficulties. 

'Twas in tliat place o' ScotlaDd's isle, 
That bears tlie name o' auld King Coil,' 
Upon a bonny day in June, 
When wearing through the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that werena thrang'^ at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar 
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure; 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,^ 
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar; 
13ut vhou he was o' high degree, 
The fient* a pride — nae pride had he; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin', 
Even wi' a tinkler-gypsy's messan:* 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted^ tyke, though e'er sae 

duddie,'' 
I But he wad stan't, as glad to see him. 
And stroan't* on stanes and hillocks 

wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, roving billie, [him, 
Wha for his friend and comrade had 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him. 
After some dog in Highland sang,* 



1 The middle district of Ayrshire. ^ Busy. 
' Ears. * A petty oath — " the devil a bit o'." 

• Cur. 8 Matted and dirty. ^ Ragged. 

• Pissed. 

* CuchuUin's dog in Ossian's " Fingal." 



Was made lang syne — Lord knaws how 
lang. 

He was a gash' and faithfu* tyk«. 
As ever lap a slieugh"^ or dike. 
His honest sonsie, baws'nt face,'* 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his touzie'"^ back 
Weel clad wi' coat 'o glossy black; 
His gaucie'^ tail, wi' upward curl. 
Hung o'er his hurdles'^ wi' a swirl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o'itlier,^* 
And unco pack and thick"* thegither; 
Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and 
snowkit," [liowkit;'" 

Whyles mice and moudieworts they 
Whyles scour'd awa' in lang excursion, 
And worried ither in diversion; 
Until wi' dafRn''^ weary grown. 
Upon a knowe''^*' they sat theni dowr., 
And there began a lang digression 
About the lords o' the creation. 

I've often wonder'd, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you 

have, 
And when the gentry's life I saw. 
What way poor bodies lived ava. 

Our laird gets in his racked rents. 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents;" 
He rises when he likes himsel; 
His flunkies answer at the bell; 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse; 
He draws a bonny silken purse [steeks,** 
As 'ang's my tail, whare, through the 
The yellow-letter' d Geordie keeks,"" 

Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toil- 
ing, 

At baking, roasting, frying boiling; 

And though the gentry first are 
stechin,''^* 

Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan'^' 

Wi' sauce, ragouts, and siclike trash- 
trie. 



9 Knowing. '^ Ditch. ''- His honest 

comely, white-striped face. ^^ Shaggy. 

13 Bushy. 1* Hips. ^^ Fond of each other. 
•8 Very interested and friendly. *^ Scented. 
J» Sometimes for mice apd moles they dug. 
1" Sporting. 20 Hillcx;k. ^^ His corn rents and 
assessments. 2^ Stitches. 23 Glances. ** Stuff 
ing'. 2^ Stomach, 



:4 



BUKNS' WOltKg. 



That's little short o' downright wastrie, 

Our whipperia, we, blastit woniier,-'' 

Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner 

Better than ony tenant man 

His honour has in a the Ian'; 

And what poor cot-folk pit their 

painch'^^ in, 
I o\s^ii it s past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fasht'^ 

enengh; 
A cotter howkin' in a sheugh,'^^ 
W'i' dirty stanes biggin' a dike, 
Baring a quarry, and siclike ; 
Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,"^^ 
And nought but his han' darg*' to keep 
Them right and tiglit in thack and rape^"^ 

And when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health or want o' masters, 
Ye maist wad think, awee touch langer, 
And they maun starve o' cauld and 

hunger; 
But how it comes I never kenn'd yet, 
They re maistly wonderfu' contented; 
And buirdly duels, and clever hizzies,^^ 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 

C/ESAR. 

But then to how ye're negleckit, [it ! 
How huffd, and cuflf'd, and disrespeck- 
Lord. man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle; 
They gang as saucy by poor folk 
As I wad by a stinkin' brock. ^"^ 
I've noticed, on our laird s court-day. 
And mony a time my heart's been wae, 
loor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factors snash:^^ 
He 11 stamp and threaten, curse and 

swear; 
He' . 1 apprehend them , poind their gear; 
Wliile they maun stan', wi' aspect 

luunble, 
And hear it a', and fear and tremble I 

I see how folk live that hae riches; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches ! 



28 Wonder, a contemptuous appellation. 
27 Paunch. 28 Troubled. 29 Digging in a 

ditch. 3" A number of ragged children. 

3' Day's work. '■'• Under a roof-tree — 

liler.tUy, thatch and rope. 3^ Stalwart men 

a d clever women. -* Badg3i. ^^ Bear a 

fcctv.»ir^s abuse. 



LUATH. 

They're no sae wretched *s ane wad _i 

think; 

Though constantly on poortith's"®brink: 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gies them little fright. 

Then chance and fortune aresaeguided, 
They're aye in less or mair provided; 
And though fatigued wi' close employ- 
ment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their gushie^' weans and faithfu' 
wives ; [pride, 

The prattling things are just their 
That sweetens a' their fire-side; [py^^ 
And whyles twalpennie worth o' nap- 
Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares 
To mind the Kirk and state affairs; 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts ; 
Or tell what new taxation's comin', 
And ferlie^^ at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-faced Hallowmas returns, 
They get the jovial ranting kirns,**' 
When rural life o' every station 
Unite in common recreation ; [Mirth 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social 
Forgets there's Cai?e upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins 
They bar the door on frosty win's ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe and sneeshin mill'*' 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The cantie*^ auld folks crackin' crouse,'^^ 
The young anes rantin' through the 

house, — 
My heart has been sae fain to see them. 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said. 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's mony a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, fawsont-*^ folk. 
Are riven out baith root and branch. 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 



38 Poverty. ^'' Thriving. "8 Ale or 

\ whisky. ^9 Wonder. *» Harvest-homes. 

\ 4' The smoking pipe and snuff-box. *^ Checr- 
i iul. *- idlking tjfiskly. ** Seemly. 



POEMS. 



75 



In favour wi some gentle master 
Wha aiblins** thrang a parliamentin' 
For Britain's guid liis saul indentin' — 

C/ESAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; [it. 
For Britains guid ! guid faith, I doubt 
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him ; 
And saying Ay or No 's they bid him : 
At operas and plays parading, 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading; 
Or maybe, in a frolic daft, 
To Hague or Calais taks a waft,^" 
To make a tour, and tak a whirl, 
To learn hon ton^ and see the worl'. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 
He rives his fathers auld entails f^ 
Or by Madrid he takes the route, [te;^® 
To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' now- 
Or down Italian vista startles, [ties. 
Whore-hunting among groves o' myr- 
Then bouses drumly German water, 
To mak liimsel look fair and fatter. 
And clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. 
For Britain'sguid!— for her destruction! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, and faction ! 



Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten and harassed 
For gear to gang that gate at last ! 

Oh, would they stay aback fra courts, 
And please themselves wi' country 

sports, 
It wad for every ane be better, 
The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cot- 
ter ! 
For thae frank, rantin' ramblin' billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill hearted fellows; 
Except for breakin' o' their timmer, 
Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shootin' o' a hare or moorcock, 
The ne er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master Cfesar, 
.Sure great folk s life's a life o' pleasure? 
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer 

them, 
The very thought o't needna fear them. 



** Perhaps. <« A trip. '*'' Breaks the entail *» Pains and groans. '" Trouble, 
on his estate. *^ See bull-fights. a thing, sa Solder. ^3 A giddy girl. 



C^SAR. 

Lord, man, were ye but whyles whare 

I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 
It's true they needna starve nor sweat. 
Through winter s cauld or simmer's 

heat; [banes. 

They've nae sair wark to craze their 
And fill auld age wi grips and granes."*^ 
But human bodies are sic tools, 
For a' their colleges and schools. 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They mak enow themsels to vex them; 
And aye the less they hae to sturf^*' 

them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them. 

A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acres till'd, he s right eneugh; 
A country girl at her wheel, 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel: 
But Gentlemen, and Ladies warst, 
Wi' evendown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy; 
Though deil haet^' ails them, yet 

uneasy; 
Their days insipid, dull, and tasteless; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless; 
And een their sports, their balls and 

races, 
Their galloping through public places, 
There's sic parade, sic pomp and art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart, 

The men cast out in party matches. 
Then sowther^-' a' in deep debauches ; 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink and 

whoring, 
Neist day their life is past enduring. 

The Ladies arm-in-arm in chisters. 
As great and gracious a' as sisters; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither. 
They're a' run deils and jads"' the 
gither. [tie, 

Whyles, owre the wee bit cup and pla- 
They sip the scandal potion pretty : 
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks. 
Pore owre the devil's pictured beuks; 
Stake on a chance a farmer s stackyard, 
And cheat like oiiy unhanged black- 
guard, [man; ■ 
There's some exception, man and wo ■ • 1 
But this is Gentry's life in common. u 



61 Devil 



^ 



76 



BURNS' WORKS. 



By this, the sun was out o' sight, 
And darker gloaming brought the 
night: [drone; 

The bum-clock^* humm'd wi' lazy 
The kye stood rowtin'^ i' the loan: 
When up they gat and shook their lugs, 
Rejoiced they 'verena men, but dogs; 
And each took aff his several way. 
Resolved to meet some ither day. 



TO A LOUSE, 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET 
AT CHURCH. 

Burns's fastidious patrons and patronesses 
sometimes ventured to lecture him on the 
homeliness and vulgarity ot some of his themes. 
" The Address to a Louse" was a notable in- 
stance. The poet defended it on account of 
the moral conveyed, and he was right, we 
think. He was ever impatient of criticism and 
suggestions : and. judging from the kind of 
criticisms and suggestions frequently offered to 
him, we may be glad that he so frequently fol- 
lowed his own judgment. 

IIa! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' 

f erlie ! ^ 
Your impudence protects you sairly: 
I canna say but ye strunt- rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace; 
Though, faith, I fear ye dine but 
sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, [ner. 
Detested, shunn'd, by saunt and sin- 
How dare ye set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ? 
Gae somewhere else, and seek your 
dinner 

On some poor body 

Swith, in some beggar's haflfet squattle^ 
Tliere ye may creep, and sprawl, and 

sprattle"* 
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, 
In shoals and nations; 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur un- 
settle* 

Your thick plantations. 



Now haud you there, ye' re out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rils," snug and tight; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye 11 iio be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
The very tapmost, towering height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose 

out. 
As plump and gray as ony grozet:' 
Oh for some rank, mercurial rozet,^ 
Or fell, red smeddum,' 
I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't. 

Wad dress your droddum!'" 

I wadna been surprised to spy 
You on an auld wile s fiannen toy:" 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat;'"'' 
But Miss's fine Lunardi !"* fie ! 

How daur ye dot ? 

O Jenny, dinna toss your head. 
And set your beauties a" abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin' ! 
The winks and finger-ends, I dread. 

Are notice takin' ! 

Oh wad .some power the giftie gie us 

To see oursels as others see us ! 

It wad frae mony a blunder free us, 

And foolish notion: [us 
What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e 

And even devotion ! 



THE ORDINATION. 

" For sense they little owe to frugal 
Heaven — 
To please the mob, they hide the little 
given." 

Kilmarnock wa]3sters,' fidge and claw 
And pour your creeshie nations :* 

And ye wha leather rax'^ and draw 
Of a' denominations, f 



5« Beede. 



Lowing. 



■ Wonder. "^ Strut. 3 Swift crawl in some 
beggar's hair. * Scramble. * Where the hair 
is never combed. 



" The ribbon ends. ^ Gooseberry. ^ Rosin. 
» Powder. '"Breach. i ' Flannel cap. 

'2 Flannel waistcoat. 

J Weavers. ^ Greasy crowds. ' Stretch. 

* A kind of bonnet, at one time fashionable, 
called after an Italian aeronaut. 

+ Kilmarnock was then a town of between 
three and four thousand inhabitants, most of 
whom were engaged in the m.^nufacture of car- 
pets and other coarse woollen goods, or in the 
preparation of leather. 



POEMS. 



TJ 



Switli to the Laigh Kirk, aue and a', 
And there tak up your stations; 

Then aif to Begbie's f in a raw. 
And pour divine libations 
For joy this day. 

Curst Common Sense, that imp o' hell, 

Cam in with Maggie Lauder; :}: 
But Oliphant aft made her yell. 

And Russell sair misca'd her; § 
This day Mackinlay taks the flail, 

And he's the boy will blaud"* her ! 
He'll clap a shangan^ on her tail. 

And set the bairns to daud" her 
\Vi' dirt this day. 

Mak haste and turn king David owre. 

And lilt v^i' holy clangor; 
O' doable verse come gie us four. 

And skirl up the Bangor: 
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure,'' 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, 
For Heresy is in her power. 

And gloriously she'll whang^ her 
Wi' pith this day. 

Come, let a proper text be read. 

And touch it aff wi' vigour, 
How graceless Ham|| leugh at his dad. 

Which made Canaan a nigger; 
Or Phinehas^ drove the murdering 
blade, 

Wi' whore-abhorring rigour; 
Or Zipporah,** the scauldin' jade. 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

I' the inn that day. 

There, try his mettle on the creed, 

And bind him down wi' caution. 
That stipend is a carnal weed 

He taks but for the fashion; 
And gie him owre the flock to feed. 

And punish each transgression; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Gie them sufficient threshin'. 

Spare them nae day. 



4 Slap, s A cleft stick. « Bespatter, ' A dust. 
e Lash. 

t A tavern near the church kept by a per- 
son of this name. 

X Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was 
made on the admission of the late rever- 
end and worthy Mr. Lindsay to the Laigh 
Kirk.— B. 

§ Oliphant and Russell Were ministers of the 
Auld-Licht party. 

H Genesis ix. 22- 

i[ Numbers xxv. Si, 

•* Exodus iv. 2$, 



Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail. 

And toss thy horns fu' canty ;^ [dale, 
Nae mair thou'lt rowte'" out-owre the 

Because thy pasture's scanty; 
For lapf u's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
And runts^' o' grace the pick and wale 

No gien by way o' dainty. 
But ilka day. 

Nae mair by Babel's streams wt" 
weep. 

To think upon our Zion 
And liing our fiddles up to sleep. 

Like baby- clouts a-dryin' ; [cheep 
Come, screw the pegs, wi' tunefu 

And o'er tiie thairms'- be tryin'; 
Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep,^' 

And a' like lamb- tails flyin' 
Fu' fast this day ! 

Lang, Patronage, wi' rod o' airn, 

Has shored^-* the Kirk's undoin*. 
As lately Fen wick, ff sair forfairn,^^ 

Has proven to its ruin: 
Our patron, honest man ! Glencairn, 

He saw mischief was brewin'; 
And, like a godly elect bairn. 

He's waled"* us out a true ane. 
And sound this day. 

Now, Robinson,:}::!: harangue nae maii; 

Bui steek your gab^'' for ever: 
Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 

For there they'll think you cleTer ! 
Or, nae reflection on your lear. 

Ye may commence a shaver; 
Or to the Netherton§§ repair. 

And turn a carpet- weaver 

Aif-hand this day. 

Mutrie|I|| and you were just a match, 
We never had sic twa drones: 

Auld Homie did the Laigh Kirk watch,' 
Just like a winkin' baudjons,^^ 

And aye he catch'd the tither wretch. 
To fry them in his caudrons : 

'^ Merry. 1° Low. " Cabbage stems 
'2 Strings. '^ Elbows jerk. '* Threatened 
15 Menaced. " Chosen. ^^ Shut your moutUr 
18 A cat. 

tt Rev. William Boyd, minister of Fenwicfc: 
whose settlement had been disputed. 

$$ The colleague of the newly-ordaine< ■ 
clergyman— a moderate. 

§§ A part of the town of Kilmarnock. 

nil The deceased clergyman, whom Ml 
Mackiiilay succeeded. 



rs 



BUEiSrS' WOEKS. 



But now his honour maun detach, 
W"i' a' his brimstone squadrons, 
Fast, fast this day. 

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes 

She's swingein'i' through the city ; 
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays! 

I vow its unco pretty : [face, 

There, Learning, with his Greekish 

Grunts out some Latin ditty ; 
And Common Sense is gaun, she says, 

To mak to Jamie Beattie l^^f 
Her plaint this day 

But there's Morality himsel, 

Embracing all opinions ; 
Hear how he gies the tither yell, 

Between his twa companions ; 
See how she peels the skin and fellj^** 

As ane were peelin' onions ! 
Now there — they're packed afE to hell. 

And banish'd our dominions 

Henceforth this day. 

O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter ; 
Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys. 

That Heresy can torture, 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse,^' 

And cowe'^"^ her measure shorter 
By the head some day. 

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in. 

And here's, for a conclusion. 
To every New-Light *** mother's son, 

From this time forth. Confusion : 
If mair they deave^^ us ^vi' theij* din. 

Or patronage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, 2'* and, every skin. 

We'll ring them aff in fusion. 
Like oil some day. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, 
OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 

*' My son, these maxims make a rule, 
And lump them aye thegither : 
The rigid righteous is a fool, 
The rigid wise anither ; 



>9 Whipping. 2" The flesh under the skin. 
9> A swing in a rope. 22 Cut, as Deafen. 
54 A match. 



tlT The well-known author of the 
on Truth." 

♦** " New Light" is a cant phrase, in the 

west of Scotland, for those religious opinions 1 

which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended ' Thoughtful. 

^ strenuously.— B. ' * Comparison. * 



The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 
May hae some pyles o' caff in ; 

So ne'er a fellow-creature slight 
For random tits o' daffin." 

— Solomon.— Eccles. vii. i6w 

O YE wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and teU 

Your neibour's fauts and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 1 

Supplied wi' store o' water, j 

The lieapet happer's ebbing still. 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

Hear me, ye venerable core. 

As counsel for poor mortals, [dool 
That frequent past douce^ Wisdom's 

For glakit^ Folly's portals; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Would here propone defences. 
Their donsie^ tricks, their black mis. : 

takes. 
Their failings and mischances. 

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared. 

And shudder at the niffer,-* 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What maks the mighty differ ? 
Discount what scant occasion gave, 

That purity ye pride in. 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop. 
What raging must his veins convulse^ 

That still eternal gallop: 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail. 

Right on ye scud your sea-way; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It makes an unco lee-way. 

See social life and glee sit down. 

All joyous and unthinking, [grown " 
Till, quite transmugrified,* they're 

Debauchery and. drinking: 
Oh would they stay to calculate 

The eternal consequences: 
Or your more dreaded hell to state. 

Damnation of expenses 1 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames. 

Tied up in godly laces. 
Before ye gie poor frailty names, 

Suppose a change o* cases; 



^ Senseless. 
Transformed. 



s Unlucfif 



I>OEMS. 



A. dear-loved lad, convenience snug, 
A treacherous inclination — 

But, let me vi^hisper i' your lug,^ 
Ye're aiblins'' nae temptation. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman; [wrang, 
Though they may gang a kennin'*^ 

To step aside, is human: 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving why they do it: 
And just as lamely can ye mark 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us; 
He knows each chord — its various tone, 

Each spring — its various bias: 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



THE INVENTORY, 

IK ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE 
SURVEYOR OF TAXES. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list 
0' guids and gear, and a' my graith. 
To which I'm clear to gie my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle. 
As ever drew afore a pettle,' 
My han'-afore's'^ a guid auld has-heen. 
And wight and willf u' a' his days been 
My han'-ahin's^ a weel-gaun filly, 
That aft has borne me hame fae Killie,* 
f And your auld burro' mony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime — 
But ance, when in my wooing pride, 
I, like a l3lockhead boost"* to ride. 
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to 
(Lord, pardon a' my sins, and that too!) 
I play'd my filly sic a shavie,^ 
She's a bedevil'd wi' the spavie. 
My fur-ahin's^ a worthy beast. 



« Ear. ■^ Perhaps. 8 a little bit. 

^ A plough spade. 2 The foremost horse on 
the leit-hand in the plough. 3 The hindmost 
horse on the left-hand in the plough. * Must 
needs. ^ A trick. * The hindmost horse on 
the riijht-hand in the plough. 

* Kilmarnock. 



As e'er in tug or tow was traced. [ti*n 

The fourth's a Highland Donald has- 

A damn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie ! 

Forbyea cowte,' o' cowte's the wale,** 

As ever ran afore a tail; 

If he be spared to be a beast, 

He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least. 

Wlieel -carriages I hae but few, 
Three carts, and twa are feckly^ new; 
An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken; 
I made a poker o' the spin'le, 
And my auld mither brunt the trin'le. 

For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils fot rantin' and for noise 
A gauesman ane, a thrasher t'other; 
Wee Davoc hauds the nowte in f otlier^'' 
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly, 
And aften labour them completely; 
And aye on Sundays duly, nightly, 
I on the question targe" them tightly^ 
Till, faith, wee I)avoc's turn'd saa 

glegi2 

Though scarcely langer than my leg. 
He'll screed you aff Effectual Callingf 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 

I've nane in female servan' station, 
(Lord, keep me ae f rae a' temptation !) 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is. 
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 
And then, if kirk folks dinna clutch 

me, 
I ken the devils darena touch me. 
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel con- 
tented, 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted. 
My sonsie,'^ smirking, dear-bough 

Bess,:): 
She stares the daddy in her face. 
Enough of ought you like but grace ; 
But her, my bonny sweet wee lady, 
I've paid enough for her already, 
And gin ye tax her or her mither, 
B' the Lord ! ye'se get them a' the 
gither. 

"> A colt. 8 Choice. » Nearly. »» Keepi 
the cattle in fodder. >*• Task. i' So sharp 
13 Comely. 

t A leading question in the Shorter Cat»» 
chism of the Westminster Assembly of dk 
vmes. 

X A child bom to the poet by a female 8e«f 
vant of Ms axother's 



do 



BURNS* WOi^KS. 



And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I'm taken ; 
Frae this time forth 1 do declare, 
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair ; 
Through dirt and dub for life I'll 

■pst'idie, ^* 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
My travel a' on foot I'll shank^^ it, 
I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit. 
The kirk and you may tak you that. 
It puts but little in your pat ; 
Sae dinna put me in your bake, 
Kor for my ten white shillings luke. 

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote 
it. 
The day and date as under noted ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic, Robert Burns. 

MOSSGIEL, February 22, 1786. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

0\ TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE 
PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1876. 

Wee, modest, crimson -tipped flower, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure' 

Thy slender stem . 
To spare thee now is past my power, 

Thou bonny gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neibor sweet. 
The bonny lark, companion meet. 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 

Wi' speckled breast, 
Wlien upward springing, blithe, to 
greet. 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted'^ forth 

Amid the storm. 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 
High sheltering woods and wa's maun 

shield ; 
But thou, beneath the random bield^ 

O' clod or stane. 
Adorns the histie-* stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

14 Tramp. i^ Walk. 
* Dust. 8 Peeped. 3 Shelter. ♦ Barren- 



There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
I'liy snawie bosom sun -ward spread. 
Thou lifts tliy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed. 

And low thou lies 1 

Such is the fate o^ artless maid, 
Sweet floweret of tlie rural shade F 
By love's simplicity betray'd. 

And guileless 4rust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er 1 

Such fate to suffering worth is given. 
Who long with wants and woes has 

striven. 
By human pride or cunning driven. 

To misery's brink. 
Till wrench'd of every stay but heaven,. 

He, ruin'd, sink I 

Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's 

fate. 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate. 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's 
weight. 

Shall be thy doom I 



LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATB 
ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR. 

After mentioning the appearance of " Holy 
Willie's Prayer," which alarmed the kirk-* 
session so much that they held severa' meet- 
ings to look over their spiritual artillery, if 
haply any of it might be pointed against 
profane rhymers, Burns states :— " Unluck* 
ily for me, my wanderings led me on anoth- 
er side, within point-blank shot of their 
heaviest metal. This is th*e unfortunate 
story that gave rise to my printed poem, 
' The Lament.' This was a most melan- 
choly affair, which I cannot vet bear to re- 
flect on, and had very nearly given me onf 
or two of the principal qualihcations /or t 

{)lace among those who have lost the charac< 
er, and mistaken the reckoning of rational, 
ity. I had been lor some days skulking from 
covert to covert, under all the terrors of a 
jaii is some ill-advised people hud unco* 



POEMS. 



81 



Eled the merciless pack of the law at my 
eels. I had taken the last farewell of ray- 
few friends ; my chest was on the road to 
Greenock ; I had composed the last song I 
should ever measure in Caledonia, ' The 
Gloomy Night is Gathering Fast,' when a 
letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine 
overthrew all my schemes, by opening new 

{jrospects to my poetic ambition." 
t is scarcely necessary," Gilbert Burns 
says, " to mention that ' The Lament ' was 
composed on that unfortunate passage in 
his matrimonial history which I have men- 
tioned in my letter to Mrs. Dunlop, [allud- 
ing to his connexion with Jean Armour.] 



Iff 
After the first distraction of his feelings had 
subsided, that connexion could no longer be 
concealed. Robert durst not engage with a 
family in his poor, unsettled state, but was 
anxious to shield his partner by every means 
in his power, from the consequences of 
their imprudence. It was agreed, therefore, 
between them, that they should make a 
legal acknowledgment of an irregular and 
private marriage, that he should go to Ja- 
maica to push his fortune^ and that she 
should remain with her father till it might 
please Providence to put the means of sup- 
porting a family in his power." 

**Alas! how o*t does goodness wound it- 
self, 
And sweet affection prove the spring of 
woe !" —Home. 

THOU pale orb, tliat silent sliines, 
While care-untroiibled mortals sleep ! 

Thou seest a wretch that inly pines, 
And wanders here to wail and weep! 

With woe I nightly vigils keep 
Beneath fchy wan, un warming beam; 

And mourn, in lamentation deep, 
How life and love are all a dream. 

1 joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly-marked distant hill: 
I joyless view thy trembling horn. 

Reflected in the gurgling rill: 
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still ! 

Thou busy power, remembrance 
cease ! 
Ah ! must the agonising thrill 

For ever bar returning peace 1 

Ko idly-feign'd poetic pains 

My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim ; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame; 
The plighted faith; the mutual flame; 

The oft-attested Powers above; 
The promised father's tender name; 

These were the pledges of my love ! 

Eiiclrcled in her clasping arms, [flown. 
How have the raptured moments 



How have I wish'd for fortune's charms. 

For her dear sake, and hers alone '. 
And must I think it 1 — is she gone. 

My secret heart's exulting boast ? 
And does she heedless hear my groan % 

And is she ever, ever lost ? 

Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honour, lost to truth. 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth '\ 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ! 

Her way may lie through rough dis« 

tress ! [soothe. 

Then who her pangs and pains will 

Her sorrows share, and make them 
less? 

Ye winged hours that o'er us pass'd. 

Enraptured more, the more enjoy'd. 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly-treasured thoughts em- 

ploy'd. [void. 

That breast, how dreary now, and 

For her too scanty once of room I 
Even every ray of hope destroy'd. 

And not a wish to gild the gloom I 

The morn that warns th' approaching 
day. 

Awakes me np to toil and woe: 
I see the hours in long array. 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a throe. 

Keen recollection's direful train, 
Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low. 

Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

And when my nightly couch I try. 

Sore harass'd out with care and 

grief, [eye. 

My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn 

Keep watchings with the nightly 
thief: 
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, [fright: 

Reigns haggard- wild, in soar af« 
Even day, all- bitter, brings relief. 

From such a horror-breatRing night. 

thou bright queen, who o'er th* ex- 
panse, [sway I 

Now highest reign'st with boundless 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observed us, fondly wandering stray! 
The time unheeded, sped away, [high. 

While love's luxurious pulse beal 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray. 

To mark the mutual kindling ey^ 



^ 



BURNS' WORKS. 



dh. ! scenes In strong remembrance set ! 

Scenes never, never to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor 1 forget, 

Again 1 feel, again I burn ! 
From every joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I w^ander through; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY ; 

AN ODE. 

A sorrow or a cross is half conquered when, by 
telling it, some dear friend becomes, as it 
were, a sharer in it. Burns poured out his 
troubles in verse with a like result. He 
says, " I think it is one of the greatest 
pleasures attending a poetic genius, that we 
can give our woes, cares, joys, and loves, an 
embodied form in verse, which to me is 
ever immediate ease." 

Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with 

care, 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I set me down and sigh: 
life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough and weary road. 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim backward as 1 cast my view, 
What sickening scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me 
through. 
Too justly I may fear ! 
Still caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom: 
My woes here shall close ne'er. 
But with the closing tomb ! 

Happy, ye sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 
I No other view regard 1 
' Even when the wish'd end's denied, 
Yet while the busy means are plied, 

They bring their own reward: 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim. 
Meet every sad returning night 
And joyless morn the same; 
You, bustling, and justling. 

Forget each grief and pain; 
I, listless, yet restless. 
Find every prospect vain. 

How blest the solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, 

Within his humble cell, 
Tlie cavern wild with tangling roots. 



Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or, haply, to liis evening thought, 

By unfrequented stream. 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
,A faint collected dream; 

While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heaven on high. 
As wand'ring, meand'ring. 
He views the solemn sky. 

Than I, no lonely hermit placed 
Where never human footstep traced, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve. 
And just to stop, and just to move. 

With self-respecting art: [joy3 

But, ah ! those pleasures, loves, and 

Which I too keenly taste. 
The solitary can despise. 
Can want, and yet be blest I 
He needs not, he heeds not. 

Or human love or nate. 
Whilst 1 here, must cry here 
At perfidy ingrate ! 

Oh! enviable, early days, [maze, 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure'* 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchanged for riper times. 
To feel the follies, or the crimes. 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport. 

Like linnets in the bush. 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
^^^len manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses. 

That active man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all. 
Of dim declining age 1 



ODE TO RUIN. 

Currie says:—" It appears from internal eri. 
dence that the above lines were composed 
in 1786, when ' Hungry Ruin had him in the 
wind.' The ' dart' that ^ 

' Cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart, 

is evidently an allusion to his separation 
from his ' bonny Jean.' Burns seems to 
have glanced into futurity with a prophetic 
eye : images of misery and woe darkened 
the distant vista : and when he looked back 
on his career he saw little to console him.— 
' I have been, this morning,' he observes, 
' taking a peep through, as Young finely 
says, ^'The dark postern oi ume long 



POEMS. 



88 



elapsed." 'Twas a rueful prospect ! What 
a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and 
folly! My life reminded me of a ruined 
temple. What strength, what proportion, 
in some parts ! What unsightly gaps, what 
prostiate ruin in others! ,1 kneeled down 
Before the Father of mercies and said, 
'' Father, I have sinned against heaven, and 
in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be 
called thy son." 1 rose, eased and strength- 
ened.' ' 

All liail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction breathing word 

The mightiest empires fall j 
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern- resolved, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then lowering and pouring. 

The storm no more I dread; 
Though thick'ning and black'ning, 
Kound my devoted head. 

And thou grim power, by life abhorr'd, 
While life a pleasure can afEord, 

Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer ! 
No more I shrink appall' d, afraid; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid 
To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul, in silent peace 

Resign life's joyless day; 
My weary heart its throbbings cease 
Cold mouldering in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more. 
To stain my lifeless face; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB 

TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND 
SOCIETY. 

The history of this poem is as follows :— " On 
Tuesday, May 23, there was a "meeting of 
the Highland Society at London for the en- 
^ couragement of the fisheries in the High- 
i-: ' lands, &c. Three thousand pounds were 
immediately subscribed by eleven gentlemen 
present for this particular purpose. The 
Earl of Breadalbahe informed the meeting 
that five hundred persons had agreed to 
emigrate from the estates of Mr. Macdonald 
of Glengarry ; that they had subscribed 
money, purchased ships, &c., to carry their 
design into effect. The noblemen and gen- 
tlemen agreed to co-operate with the Gov- 
ernment to frustrate their design ; and to 
recommend to the principal noblemen and 



gentlemen in the Highlands to endeavour to 
prevent emigration, by improving the fish- 
eries, agriculture, and manufactures, and 
particularly to enter into a subscription for 
that purpose." This appeared in the Edin- 
durgh Advertiser of 30th May, 1786. Re- 
membering the outcry made a few years 
ago against Highland evictions, we cannot 
help being somewhat surprised at the poet's 
indignation. Mackensie of Applecross, who 
figures in the poem, was a liberal landowner. 
Mr. Knox, in his tour of the Highlands 
written about the same time as the Address, 
states that he had relinquished all feudal 
claims upon the labour of his tenants, paying 
them for their labour. The Address first 
appeared in the Scot's Magazine with the 
following heading :— " To the Right Hon- 
ourable the Earl of Breadalbane, President 
of the Right Honourable and Honourable 
the Highland Society, which met on the 23d 
of May last, at the Shakespeare, Covent 
Garden, to concert ways and means to frus- 
trate the designs of live hundred Highland- 
ers, who, as the Society were informed by 

Mr. M of A s, were so audacious as 

to attempt an escape from their lawful lords 
and masters, whose property they were, by 
emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdon- 
ald of Glengarry, to the wilds of Canada, in 
search of that fantastic thing. Liberty." 

Long life, my lord, and health be yours 
Unscaith'd by hunger'd Highland 

boors;' [gar, 

Lord, grant nae duddie"^ desperate beg- 
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger. 
May twin auld Scotland o' a life 
She likes — as lambkins like a knife. 

Faith, you and A s were right 

To keep the Highland hounds insight: 
1 doubt na ! they wad bid nae better 
Then let them ance out owre the 

water; 
Then up amang thae lakes and seas 
They'll mak what rules and laws they 

please; 
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin, 
May set their Highland bluid a rank- 

lin'; [them. 

Some Washington again may heac^ 
Or some Montgomery, fearless lead 

them, 
Till Grod knows what may be effected 
When by such heads and hearts di« 

rected — 
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 
May to Patrician rights aspire ! [villa. 
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sack. 
To watch and premier o'er the pack 

vile. 



' Clodhoppers. 



Ragged. 



84 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And wliare will ye get Howes and 

Clintons 
To bring them to a right repentance. 
To CO we the rebel generation, 
And sav'e the honour o' the nation ? 
They and be damn'd ! what right hae 

they 
To meat or sleep, or light o' day ? 
Far less to riches, power, or freedom, 
But what your lordship likes to gie 
them ? 

But hear, my lord ! Glengarrj,hear! 
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear! 
Your factors, grieves, trustees and 

bailies, 
1 canna say but they do gaylies;^ 
Then lay aside a' tender mercies. 
And tiri the hallions to the birses;^ 
Yet while they're only poind 't and 

herriet," [spirit; 

They'll keep their stubborn Highland 
But smash them I crash them a' to 

spails !" 
And rot the dyvors'' i' the Jails ! 
The young dogs, swinge^ them to the 

labour; 
Let wark and hunger mak them sober! 
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins faw- 

sont,^ 
Let them in X)rury Lane be lesson'd ! 
And if the wives and dirty brats 
E'en thigger^*^ at your doors and yetts,'^ 
Flaffan wi' duds and gray wi' beas',^'^ 
Frightin' awa' your deucks and geese. 
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,^^ 
The langest thong, the fiercest growler. 
And gar''* the tatter'd gypsies pack 
Wi' a' their bastards on their back I 
Go on, my lord I I lang to meet you. 
And in my house at hame to greet you; 
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle, 
The benmost neuk^° beside the ingle, ^^ 
At my right han* assign'd your seat, 
*Tween Herod's hip and Polycrate,— 
Or if you on your station tarrow,^"" 
Between Almagro and Pizzaro, 
A seat, I'm sure ye're well deser^nn't; 
And till ye come — Your humble ser- 
vant, Beelzebub. 

June ist. Anno Mundt\ 5790 [a. p. 1786.] 

3 Pretty well. ■• And strip the clowns to the 
skin. * Sold out and despoiled. « Chips, 
» Bankrupts. « Whip. » The girls if they 
be at all handsome. 10 Beg. n Gates. 

12 Fluttering in rags and gray with vermin. 
" A dog. '^ Make. ^^ The innermost 

•orner. i® Fire place. *'' Complaia 



A DREAI^I. 

The publication of *' The Dream " in the '. 
inburgh edition ol the poems, according 
many, did much to injure the poet with tl 
dispensers of Government patronage. Mt 
Dunlop and others endeavoured in vain 
prevent its publication. The free-spol 
and humourous verses of Burns contrast odi 
ly with the servile ode of Warton, whic 
Burns represents himself as having fa" 
asleep in readmg. 

" Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statut 
blames with reason ; 
But surely drfeams were ne'er indict 
treason." 

On reading in the public papers the Laureatel . 
" Ode,"* with the other parade of June 4,' 
1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep 
than he imagined himself transported to the 
birthday levee ; and in his dreaming fc 
made the following Address.— Burns. 

Guid-mornin' to your Majesty ! 

May Heaven augment your blisses. 
On every new birthday ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My hardship here, at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is. 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see. 

Among thae birthday dresses 
Sae fine this day. 

I see ye're complimented thrang. 

By many a lord and lady : 
" God save the king" 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said aye; 
The poets, too, a venal gang; 

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, 
Wad gar ye trow^ ye ne'er do wrang, 

But aye unerring steady. 
On sic a day. 

For me, before a monarch's face. 
Even there I wiuna flatter; 

For neither pension, post, nor place. 
Am I your humble debtor: 

1 Would make you believe. 

* Thomas Warton then filled this office. 
His ode for June 4, 1786, begins as follows :— 
" When freedom nursed her native fire 
In ancient Greece, and ruled the lyre, 
Her bards disdainful, from the tyrant's 
brow 
The tinsel gifts of flattery tore. 
But paid to guiltless power their willing 
vow. 
And to the throne of virtuous kings,'' 
&c. 
On these verses, the rhymes of the Ayrshlra 
bard must be allowed to form an odd enotigl; 
commentary.— Chambers. 



POEMS. 



So, nae reflection on your grace. 
Your kingsliip to bespatter; 

There's mony waur- been o' tlie race. 
And aiblins^ ane been better 
Than you this day. 

^Tis very true, my sovereign king, 

My skill may weel be doubted: 
But 'facts are chiels that winna ding/ 

And downa^ be disputed: 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft and clouted^ 
And now the third part of the string, 

And less will gang about it * 
Than ^d ae day.f 

Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation. 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire. 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But, faith! I muckle doubt, my sire, 

Ye've trusted ministration 
To chaps,'' wha, in a barn or byre. 

Wad better fiU'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaister: 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester: 
For me, thank God, my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or, faith ! 1 fear that wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost^ to pasture 

I' the craft some day. 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(And Will's a true guid fallow's get,:j: 

A name not envy spairges.)'' 
That he intends to pay your debt. 

And lessen a' your charges; 
But, God-sake ! let nae saving fit 

Abridge your bonny barges § 
And boats this da v. 



'^ Many worse. ^ Perhaps. * Beat. * Will 
not. ^ Broken and patched. "^ Fellows. 
* Behoved. * Bespatters. 

t In this verse the poet alludes to the im- 
mense curtailment of the British dominion at 
the close of the American war, and the cession 
of the territory of Louisiana to Spain. 

X Gait, gett, or gyte, a homely substitutefor 
the word child in Scotland. The above stanza 
is not the only testimony of admiration which 
Burns pays to the great Earl of Chatham. 

§ On the supplies for the navy being voted, 
•prinjj, 1786, Captaia Macbride counselled 



Adieu, my liege ! may Freedom geck*^ 

Beneath your high protection; 
And may you rax" Corruption's neck. 

And gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect. 

In loyal, true affection. 
To pay your queen, with due respect. 

My fealty and subjection 

This great birthday. 

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please ye. 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye ? [lent, 

Thae bonnie bairn-time, ^"^ Heaven haa 

Still higher may they heeze*^ ye 
In bliss, till fate some day is sent. 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 

For you, young potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your highness fairly [sails, 
Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails. 

And curse your folly sairly. 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales. 

Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, \ 
By night or day. 

Yet aft a ragged cowte's'* been known 

To mak a noble aiver;^^ 
So, ye may doucely'® fill a throne. 

For a' their clisii-ma-claver;'^ 
There, him at Agincourt ^ wha shone. 

Few better were or braver: 
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,** 

He was an unco shaver'^ 

For mony a day. 

For you, right reverend Osnaburg,ff 
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter. 

Although a ribbon at your lug 
Wad been a dress completer: 

As ye disown yon paughty'^ dog 
That bears the keys o' Peter, 

Then, swith ! and get a wife to hug, 

10 Lift her head. "Stretch. "Children. 

'3 Raise. " Colt. '^ Horse. " Wisely. 

'^ Idle scandal. *^ A humourous wag:. 
1" Haughty. 

some changes in that force, particularly thfi 
(jiving up of 64-gun ships, which occasioned A 
good deal of discussion. 

II The Right Hon. Charles James Fox. 
i King Henry V. — B. 

** Sir John Yi\\%X3&—vide Shakespeare.^1Et 
tt The Duke of York« - 



06 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Or, trouth I ye'll stain the mitre 
Some luckless day. 

Young, royal Tarry Breeks,+± I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart lier; 
A glorious gall ey,§§ stem and stem, 

Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter; 
But first hang out, that she '11 discern, 

Your hymeneal charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple-airn. 

And, large upon her quarter, 
Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, bonny blossoms a', 

Ye royal lasses dainty. 
Heaven mak you guid as weel as braw, 

And gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer na British boys awa', 

For kings are unco scant aye f^ 
And German gentles are but sma'. 

They're better just than want aye 
On ony day. 

God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautit f^ 
But ere the course o' life be through, 

It may be bitter sautit :^^ 
And I hae seen their coggie f u' i^^ 

That yet hae tarrow't '^^ at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautit^^ 
Fu' clean that day. 



THE HOLY FAIR.* 

This is by far the ablest of the satires Bums 
levelled at the Church ; and his worst ene- 
mies could not avoid confessing that it was 
as well deserved as it was clever. Scenes 
such as the poet describes had become a 
scandal and a disgrace to the Church. The 
poem was met by a storm of abuse from his 
old enemies ; but, amid all their railings, 
they did not fail to lay it to heart, and from 
that time forward there was a manifest im- 
provement in the bearing of ministers and 
people on such occasions. This is not 
the least of its merits in the eyes of his 
countrymen of the present day. Notwith- 
standing the daring levity of some of its al- 
lusions and incidents, the poet has strictly 
confined himself to the sayings and doings 
of the assembled multitude — the sacred rite 
itself is never once mentioned. 

20 Always scarce. ^i Xoo much flattered. 
22 Salted. 2? Platter full. 24 Grumbled, 

's They have scraped out the dish. 

tX William IV., then Duke of Clarence. 

§§ Alludiug to the newspaper account of a 
tertain royal sailor's amour. 

* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the west 
of Scotland for a sacramentid occasion.— B. 



" A robe of seeming truth and trust 
Hid crafty observation ; 
And secret hung, with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show'd, 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a man tie, large and broad. 
He wrapt him in Religion." 

— Hypocrisy h-la-MotU, 

Upon a simmer Sunday mom. 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the com, I 

And snufE the caller' air. 
The -rising sun owre Galstonf muirSf, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin' ;'^ 
The hares were hirplin^ down the f urs,- 

The lav'rocks they were chantin' 
Fu' sweet that day. 

As lightsomely I glower'd= abroad. 

To see a scene sae gay, 
Three hizzies,^ early at the road, 

Cam skelpin' up the way; 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart' lining; 
The third, that gaed a- wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shining 
Fu' gay that day. 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin. 

In feature, fonn, and claes; 
Their visage, wither'd, lang, and thin. 

And sour as ony slaes: 
The third cam up, hap-step-and-lowp. 

As light as ony lambie, 
And wi' a curchie low did stoop. 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 
Fu' kind that day. 

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonny face, 

But yet I cauiia name ye." 
Quo' she, and laughin' as she spak, 

And taks me by the hands, 
"Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck* 

Of a' the ten commands 

A screed some day. 

* ' My name is Fun — your crony dear, 

The nearest friend ye hae; 
And this is Superstition here, 

And that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Mauchline holy fair, 

' Fresh. 2 Glancing. ^ Limping. * Fur. 
rows. * Looked. « Wenches. ^ Gray, ^ Most 

t The adjoining parish to Mauchline. 



POEMS. 



To spend an hour in dafnn' f 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair, 
We will get famous laughin'. 
At them this day. " 

«^oth I, " With a' my heart, I'll do't, 

I'll get my Sunday's sark^" on, 
And meet you on the holy spot; 

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin'!' 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time," 

And soon I made me ready; 
For roads were clad, f rae side to side, 

Wi' ciony a weary body. 

In droves that day. 

Here farmers gash,'^ in ridin' graith,'=^ 

Gaed hoddin''^ by their cotters; 
There, swankies^" young, in braw 
braid claith, 
Are springin' owre the gutters; 
The lasses, skelpin' barefit, thrang. 

In silks and scarlets glitter; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a 
whang, ^^ 
And farls,'^ baited wi' butter, 
Fu' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glower Black-bonnet:}: throws. 

And we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show. 

On very side they're gath'rin' 
Borne carrying dails,^* some chairs and 
stools, 

And some are busy bleth'rin'*^ 
Right loud that day. 

Here stands a shed to fend the showers. 

And screen our country gentry, 
There Racer Jess,§ and twa-three 
whores. 



'Sport. "Shirt. »i Breakfast-time. " Sen- 
sible. *3 Attire. ** Jogging, i^ Striplings. 
" Cut. 1^ Cakes. »« Planks, or boards, to 
Bit on. »9 Chatting. 

t A colloquial appellation bestowed on the 
church elders or deacons, who in landward 
parishes in the olden time generally wore 
black bonnets on Sundays, when they offici- 
ated at " the plate " in making the usual col- 
lection for the poor.— Motherwell. 

§ The following notice of Racer Jess ap- 
peared in the newspapers of February. 1818 :— 
' Died ati^Mauchline a few weeks since, Janet 
.Gibson, consigned to immortality by Burns in 
his ' Holy Fair," under the turf appellation of 
■ Racer Jess.' She was the daughter of ' Poo- 
>ie Nansie,' who figures in ' The Jolly Beg- 
^SfUS.' She was remarkable for her pedestrian 



Are blinkin' at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittlin'-^" jades, 

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck. 
And there a batch o' wabster lads, 

Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock, 
For fun this day. 

Here some are thinkin' on their sins. 

And some upo' their cl'aes; 
Ane curses feet that fyled'^' his shinS; 

Anither sighs and prays: 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, ^^ 

Wi' screw'd-up grace-proud faces; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin' on the lasses 
To chairs that day. 

Oh, happy is that man and blest 1 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Whase ane dear lass, that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin' down beside him ! 
Wi' arm-reposed on the chair back. 

He sweetly does compose him; 
Which, by degrees, slips round hw 
neck, 

An's.loof^^ upon her bosom, 

Unkenn'd that day. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation: 
For Moodie|| speels*^* the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' damnation. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' God present him, 
The very sight o' Hoodie's face 

To's ain het hame had sent him 
Wi' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith 
Wi' rattlin' and wi' thumpin' ! 

Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath. 
He's stampin' and he's jumpin' ! 

His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up 
snout, 

20 Whispering. 21 Soiled, «* Sample, 
23 Hand. 24 Climbs. 

powers, and sometimes ran long distances for 
a wager." 

II Moodie was the minister of Riccarton,and 
one of the heroes of " The Twa Herds." He 
was a never-tailing assistant at the Mauchline 
sacraments. His personal appearance and 
style of oratory were exactly such as described 
by the poet. He dwelt chiefly oc the terrors 
of the law. On one occasion he told the audi- 
ence that they would find the text in John 
viii. 44, but it was so applicable to their cas.i 
that there was no need of his reading it to 
them. The verse begins, "Ye are of youl 
father the devil." 



m 



BURNS' WORKS. 



His eldritch '^^ squeal, aad gestures, 
Oh, how they fire the heart devout, 
Like cantharidian plasters. 
On sic a day ! 

But, hark ! the tent has changed its 
voice ! 

There 's peace and rest nae langer : 
For a' the real* judges rise. 

They canna sit for anger. 
Smith^f opens out his cauld harangues 

On practice and on morals ; 
And aff the godly pour in thrangs. 

To gie the jars and barrels 
A lift that day. 

What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral powers and reason ? 
His English style and gesture fine, 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan heathen, 
The moral man he does define. 

But jie'er a word o' faith in 

That 's right that day. 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum ; 
For Peebles, frae the Water-fit,** 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he 's got the Word o' God, 

And meek and mim'-*^ has view'd it. 
While Common Sense f f has taken the 
road, 

And 's afi and up the Cowgate,|j: 
Fast, fast, that day. 



35 Unearthly. =6 Primly. 

t Mr. (afterwards Dr.) George Smith, min- 
ister of Galston— the same whom the poet in- 
troduces, in a different feeUng, under the ap- 
pellation of Irvine-side, in "The Kirk's 
Alarm." Burns meant on this occasion to 
compliment him on his rational mode of 
preaching, but the reverend divine regarded 
the stanza as satirical. 

**The Rev. Mr. (afterwards Dr.) William 
Peebles, minister of Newton-upon-Ayr, some- 
times named, from its situation, i/ie Ji'aier-/if, 
and the moving hand in the prosecution of 
Dr. M'Gill,on which account he is introduced 
into " The Kirk's Alarm." He was in great 
favour at Ayr among the orthodox party, 
though much inferior m ability to the hetero- 
dox ministers of jthau ancient burgh. 

+t Dr. Macken«ie, then of Mauchline, after 
wards of Irvine, had recently conducted some 
village controversy under the title of " Com- 
mon Sense." Some local commentators are of 
opinion that he, and not the personified ab- 
straction is meant. 

a A street so called which faces the tent in 



Wee Miller§§ neist the guard relieves^ 

And orthodoxy raibles,'" 
Though in his heart he weel believes 

And thinks it auld wives' fables: 
But, faith ! the birkie wants a manse. 

So, cannily he hums them; 
Although his carnal wit and sense 

Like hafflins-ways"^*^ o'ercomes him 
At times that day. 

Now but and ben the change-housb filll 

Wi' yill-caup commentators: 
Here's crying out for bakes'-^ and gills. 

And there the pint-stoup clatters: 
While thick and'thrang, and loud an^ 
lang, 

Wi' logic and wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that, in the end. 

Is like to breed a rupture 

0' wrath that day. 

Leeze me on drink ! it gies us mair 

Than either school or college: 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair, 

It pangs^** us fou o' knowledge, 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep. 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinking deep, 

To kittle^' up our notion 

By night or day. 

The lads and lasses, blithely bent. 

To mind baith saul and body, 
Sit round the table weel content, 

And steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, and that ane's leuk 

The're making observations; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk,^' 

And forming assignations 

To meet some day. 

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts 

Till a' the hills are rarin', 
And echoes back return the shouts. 

Black Russell |||| is na sparin'; 

2^^ Rattles. 28 Like Hafflins-ways— almost. 
29 Biscuits. 30 Crams. 3 1 Rouse. 32 Snug in 
the corner. 

Mauchline.— B. The same street in whicii 
Jean Armour lived. 

§§ The Rev. Mr. Miller, afterwards minister 
of Kilmaurs. He was of remarkably low 
stature, but enormous girth. Burns believed 
him at the time to lean at heart to the,-moder- 
ate party. This stanza, virtually the most de- 
preciatory in the whole poem, is said to havfl 
retarded Miller's advancement. 

Jin The Rev. John Russell, at this time minis 
ter of the chapel of ease, Kilmarnock, aftqr 



POEMS. 



89 



His piercing words, like Highland 
sworcte, 
Divide the joints and marrow; 
His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell; 
Our vera sauls does harrow ^J, 
Wi' fright that day. 

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fill'd fu' o' lowin' brunstane, 
Wliase ragin' flame, and scorchin' heat, 

Wad melt the hardest whunstane 1 
The half -asleep start up wi' fear, 

And think they hear it roarin', 
When presently it does appear 

'Twas but some neibor snorin' 
Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How mony stories past, 
And how they crowded to the yill 

When they were a' dismist-. 
How drink gaed round, in cogs and 
caups. 

Among the forms and benches: [laps 
And cheese and bread, frae women's 

Was dealt about in lunches. 

And dauds^^ that day. 

In comes a gaucie,^* gash^^ guidwife, 

And sits down by the fire, [Imife; 
Syne draws her kebbuck^* and her 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld guidmen, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays. 

And gies them't like a tether, 
Fu' lang that day. 

Waesucks I^' for him that gets nae lass. 

Or lasses that hae naething! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace, 

Or melvie^® his braw claithing! 
O wives, be mindfu' ance yersel 

How bonny lads ye wanted. 
And dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,^^ 

Let lasses be affronted 
On sic a day! 



33 Lumps. 34 Fat. 3^ Sagacious. 36 Cheese. 
»7 Alas. 38 Soil. 39 Cheese-crust, 
wards minister of Stirling— one of the heroes 
of " The Twa Herds." " He was," says a cor- 
respondent of Cunningham's, " the most tre- 
mendous man I ever saw ; Black Hugh Mac- 
pherson was a beauty in comparison. His 
voice was like thunder, and his sentiments 
were such as must have shocked any class of 
hearers m the least more .-efined than those 
whom he usually addressed." 

^1 Shakespeare's " Hamlet.' — B, 



Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow, 

Begins to jow and croon ;^<^ [dovv*» 
Some swagger hame, the best they 

Some wait the afternoon, 
At slaps*'' the billies'*^ halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their slioon: [drink, 
Wi' faith and hope, and love and 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

How mony hearts this day converts I 

O' sinners and o' lasses! [gane. 

Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine; 

There's some are fou o' brandy; 
And mony jobs that day begin 

May end in houghmagandy** 
Some ither day. 



VERSES ON A SCOTCH BARD, 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

The following playfully personal lines were 
written by the poet when he thought he 
was about to leave the country in 1786 for 
Jamaica: — 

A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,* 
A' ye wha live and never think. 

Come, mourn wi' me I 
Our billie'sgien us a' a jink,^ 

And owre the sea. 

Lament him a' ye rantin' core, 
Wha dearly like a random splore,' 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar 

In social key; 
For now he's taken anither shore, 

And owre the sea! 

The bonny lasses weel may wiss him, 
And in their dear petitions place him; 
The widows, wives, and a' may bless 
him, 

Wi' tearfu' ee; 
For weel I waf* they'll sairly miss him 

That's owre the sea! 
Fortune, they hae room to grumlle! 



4" Sing and groan. •*» Can. *^ Breaches * 
in fences. ^3 Lads. ** Fornication. 

' Versifying. ^ "Our friend has eluded U6t* 

*»FroU€, ^WeU I know. 



w 



BUBNS' WOUKS. 



fiadst thou ta'en afE some drowsy 

bummle* [ble,^ 

'Wlia can do nought but fyke and fum- 

'Twad been nae plea; 
But he was gleg' as ony wumble,*^ 

That's owre the seal 

Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 
And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear; 
'Twill make her poor auld heart, I 
fear, 

In flinders' flee; 
He was her laureate mony a year 
That's owre the sea! 

fle saw misfortune's cauld nor'-west 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast; 
A jillet'° brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be! 
So, took a berth afore the mast. 

And owre the sea. 

To tremble under Fortune's cummock," 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,^'^ 
Wi' his proud, independent stomach 

Could ill agree; 
So, row't his hurdies^^ in a hammock. 

And owre the sea. 
He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, 
Yet coin his pouches^"* wadna bide in; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding: 

He dealt it free: 
The Muse was a' that he took pride in 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
And hap him in a cozie biel;'* 
Ye'U find him aye a dainty chiel,^^ 

And fu' o' glee; 
He wadna wrang the very deil. 

That's owre the sea. 

Fareweel, my rhyme -composing billie! 
Your native soil was right ill-willie; 
But may ye flourish like a lily. 

Now bonnilie! 
ril toast ye in my hindmost gillie " 

Though owre the sea! 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Of this beautiful epitaph, which Burns wrote 
for himself, Wordsworth says,— "Here is a 



* Bungler. ' " Make a fuss." '' Sharp. 
•Wimble. » Shreds. J" Jilt. " Rod. 12 Meal 
and water. "^ Wrapt his hams. ^* Pockets. 
16 Warm Shelter. »« Kindly Mow. " My 



sincere and solemn avowal— a public decl 
ration from his own will — a confession 
once devout, poetical, and human— a histo: 
in the shape of a prophecy!" 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, [ml 
Owre fast for thought, owre hot f< 
Owre blate' to seek, owre proud 1 
snool? ^ 

Let him draw near; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,* 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song, 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among 

That weekly this area throng ? 

Oh, pass not by ! 
But, with a f rater-feeling strong. 

Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment cleaj 
Can others teach the course to steer. 
Yet runs himself life's mad career 

Wild as the wave ? [tear" 
Here pause — and, through the starting 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below 

Was quick to learn, and wise to know. 

And keenly felt the friendly glow. 

And softer flame. 
But thoughtless follies laid him low. 

And stam'd his name I 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole. 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. 

In low pursuit; 
Knqw, prudent, cautious self-control 

Is wisdom's root. 



A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAM. 
ILTON, ESQ. 

Expect na, sir, in this narration, 
A fleechin',' fleth'rin"^ dedication. 
To roose^ you up, and ca you guid. 
And sprung o' great and noble bluid. 
Because ye're surnamed like his Graces 
Perhaps related to the race; 
Then when Fm tired, and sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie. 
Set up a face, how I stop short. 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

' Bashful, ^ Be obsequious. ' Lament* 
tion. 
» Flattering. ' Fawnioff. ' Praiwi, 



POEMS. 



91 



'This may do — maun do, sir, wi' them 
, wha [wamefu'--* 

Maun please the great folks for a 
For me ! sae laigh^ I neediia bow, 
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough; 
'And when I downa^ yoke a naig, 
(Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; 
Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatterin', 
[ts just sic poet, and sic patron. 

The poet, some guid angel help him, 
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp' him. 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet. 
But only — he's no just begun yet. . 

The patron, (sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me,) 
On every hand it will allow'd be, 
He's just — nae better than he should be. 

I readily and freely grant, 
He downa see a poor man want; 
What's no his ain he winna tak it, 
WTiat ance he says he winna break it; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 
Till aft his guidness is abused, 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang. 
Even that he doesna mind it lang: 
A3 master, landlord, husband, father, 
He doesna fail his part in either. 

But then nae thanks to him for a' that; 
S'ae godly symptom ye can ca' that; 
[t's naething but a milder feature 
0£ our poor sinfu', corrupt nature: 
Fe'll get the best o' moral works, 
Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Dr hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
W\i& never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
it's no through terror of damnation; 
[t's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality thou deadly bane. 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
7ain is his hope whose stay and trust is 
ji moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

S"© — stretch a point to catch a plack;^ 
\buse a brother to his back: 
5teal through a winnock^ f rae a whore, 
3ut point the rake that taks the door. 
3e to the poor like ony whunstane. 



* Bellyful. 6 Low. « Cannot. '' Beat. ^ a 
iJoin- third part of a penny. » Window. 



And hand their noses to the grunstane. 
Ply every art o' legal thieving; 
No matter; stick to sound believing. 

Learn three-mile prayers, and half- 
mile graces, [faces; 
Wi' weel-spread looves,^*' and lang wr^ 
Grunt up a solemn, leng-then'd groan. 
And damn a' parties but your ovm; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver— 
A steady, sturdy, stanch believer. 

ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin, 
For gumlie" dubs of your ain delvin'! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 

"i^e'll some day squeel in quaking terror! 
When Vengeance draws the sword in 

wrath. 
And in the fire throws the sheath; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom. 
Just frets till Heaven commission gies 

him; [moans. 

While o'er the harp pale Misery 
And strikes the ever-deepening tones. 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans^ 

Your pardon, sir, for this digression, 

1 maist forgat my Dedication; 

But when divinity comes 'cross me. 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, 
But I maturely thought it proper 
When a' my works I did review. 
To dedicate them, sir, to you: 
Because (yeneedna tak it ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel 
Then patronise them wi' your favour. 

And your petitioner shall ever 

I had amaist said, ever pray; 
But that's a word I needna say: 
For prayin' I hae little skill o't; 
I'm baith dead-sweer,'"^ and wretched 

ill o't; 
But I'se repeat each poor man's prayer 
That kens or hears about you, sir — 

"May ne'er Misfortune's growling 
bark [Clerk!* 

Howl through the dwelling o' the 
May ne'er his generous, honest heart 
For that same generous spirit smart ! 

"Palms. "Muddy. "Unwilling. 

*A term applied to Mr. Hamilton from his 
having acted in that capacity to some of thf 
county courts. 



S2 



BURNS' WORKS. 



May Kennedy's far honour'd name 
Lang beat hii hymeneal flame 
Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen, 
Are frae tlieir nuptial labours risen : 
Five bonny lasses round tlieir table, 
And seven braw fellows stout and able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual 

rays. 
Shine on the evening o' his days ; 
Till his wee curlie John'sf ier-oe,'^ 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow !" 

I will not wind a lang conclusion 
Wi' complimentary effusion : 
But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest wi' Fortune's smiles and 

favours, 
I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which Powers above prevent !) 
That iron-hearted carl. Want, 
Attended in his grim advances, 
By sad mistakes and black mischances. 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures 

fly him. 
Make you as poor a dog as I am, 
Your humble servant then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor ? 
But by a poor man's hopes in Heaven ! 
While recollection's power is given. 
If, in the vale of humble lif6, 
The victim sad of Fortune's strife, 
I, through th»^i tender gushing tear. 
Should recognize my master dear. 
If friendless, low, we meet together, 
Then, sir, your hand — my friend and 
brother ! 



INVITATION TO A MEDICAL 
GENTLEMAN 

TO ATTEND A MASONIC ANNIVERSARY 
MEETING. 

Friday first 's the day appointed. 
By our Right Worshipful anointed, 

To hold our grand procession , 
To get a blade of Johnny's morals. 



13 Great-grandchild, 
t John Hamilton, Esq., a worthy scion of a 
p)ble stock* 



And taste a swatch ^ o' Manson's b», 
rels, 
I' the way of our profession. 
Our Master and the Brotherhood 

Wad a' be glad to see you ; 
For me I would be mair than proud 
To share the mercies wi' you. 
If death, then, wi' skaith, then. 

Some mortal heart is hechtin"* i 
Inform him, and storm him, 
That Saturday ye '11 fecht him,* 

Robert Burns. 



THE FAREWELL. 

" The following touching stanzas," says Cun. 
ningham, "were composed in the autumn d 
1786, when the prospects of the poet darken! 
ed, and he looked towards the West Indie! 
as a place of refuge, and perhaps of hope 
All who shared his affections are mentionec 
— his mother— his brother Gilbert— his ille 
gitimate child, Elizabeth, — whom he con 
signed to his brother's care, and for whos 
support he had appropriated the copyrigh 
of his poems,— and his friends Smith, Hamil 
ton, and Aiken; but in nothing he eve 
wrote was his affection for Jean Armou 
more tenderly or more naturally displayed.' 

" The valiant in himself, what can he suffer 
Or what does he regard his single woes? 
But,when,alas! he multiplies himself, 
To dearer selves, to the loved tender fair. 
To those whose bliss,whose being hang upoi 

him. 
To helpless children! then, oh, then! he feel 
The point of misery festering in his heart. 
And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward; 
Such, such am I! — undone!" 

— Thomson's Edward and Eleanor a 

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak do 

mains. 
Far dearer than the torrid plains 

Where rich ananas blow ! 
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear ! 
A brother's sigh ! a sister's tear ! 
My Jean's heart-rending throe I 
Farewell, my Bess ! though thou *rt 
bereft 
Of my parental care ; 
A faithful brother I have left, 
My part in him thou 'It share I 
Adieu too, to you too. 

My Smith, my bosom frien' ; 
When kindly you mind me. 

Oh, then befriend mv Jean I 



» Samole ' Threatening. » Fight, 



POEMS. 



OS 



Wliat bui-sting anguish tears my 

heart ! 
From thee, my Jeanie, must I part 1 
Thou, weeping, answerest, " No !" 
Alas ! misfortune stares my face, 
And points to ruin and disgrace, 

I, for thy sake must go ! 
Thee, Hamilton and Aiken dear, 

A grateful, warm, adieu ! 
I, with a much-indebted tear. 
Shall still remember you ! 
All hail, then, the gale then. 

Wafts me from thee, dear shore! 
It rustles and whistles — 
I'll never see thee more ! 

LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK- 
NOTE. 
Wae worth thy power, thou cursed 

leaf ! 
Fell source o' a' my woe and grief ! 
For lack o' thee I've lost my lass ! 
For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass. 
I see the children of affliction 
Unaided, through thy cursed restric- 
tion. 
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile, 
Amid his hapless victim's spoil. 
And, for thy potence vainly wish'd 
To crush the villain in the dust. 
For lack o' thee, I leave this much- 
loved shore. 
Never, perhaps, to greet auld Scotland 
more. 

R. B.— Kyle. 



VERSES TO AN OLD SWEET- 
HEART AFTER HER MARRIAGE. 

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A 

COPY OF HIS POEMS PRESENTED 

TO THE LADY. 

Dnce fondly loved, and still remem- 
bered dear, [vows! 
Sweet early object of my youthful 
Accept this mark of friendship, warm 
sincere, — [allows. 
Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now 

And when you read the simple, artless 

rhymes, [more , — 

One friendly sigh for him — .he asks no 

Who distant burns in flaming torrid 

climes, [roar. 

Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic's 



VERSES WRITTEN UNDER 

VIOLENT GRIEF. 

The following lines, which first appeared in 
the Sun newspaper, April 1823, appear ttf 
have oecii OMginally written on a leaf of 4 
copy oi m.i poems pt esented to a friend:— 

Accept the gift a friend sincere 
Wad on thy worth be pressin'; 
Remembrance oft may start a tear. 
But oh ! that tenderness forbear. 
Though 'twad my sorrows lessen. 

My morning raise sae clear and fair, 

I thought sair storms wad never 
Bedew the scene; but grief and care 
In wildest fury hae made bare 
My peace, my hope, for ever 1 

You think I'm glad; oh, I pay weel 

For a' the joy I borrow, 
In^solitude^then, then I feel 
I canna to myself conceal 

My deeply-ranklin' sorrow. 

Farewell ! within thy bosom free 

A sigh may whiles awaken; 
A tear may wet thy laughin' ee, 
For Scotia's son — ance gay like thee 
Now hopeless, comfortless, forsakeuX 



THE CALF. 

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN. 
The Rev. James Steven was afterwards one 
of the Scottish clergy in London, and ulti-. 
mately minister of Kilwinning in Ayrshire, 
It appears that the poet,while proceeding to 
church at Mauchline, one day, called on his 
friend Mr. Gavin Hamilton, who, being un- 
well, could not accompany him, but desired 
him, as parents were wont to do with chil- 
dren, to bring home a note of the text 
Burns called on his return, and sitting dowi 
for a minute at Mr. Hamilton's business ti 
ble, wrote the following lines as an answer 
to his request. It is also said that the poet 
had a wager with his friend Hamilton, that 
he would produce a poem within a certain 
time, and that he gained it by producing 
"The Calf." 

On his text, Malachi iv. 2— "And they shall 
go forth, and grow up like calves of the stall," 

Right, sir ! your text I'll prove it true, 
Though heretics may laugh; 

For instance; there's yoursel just now^ 
God knows, an uncQ calf I 



91 



BURNS' WORKa 



And should some patron be so kind 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt na, sir, but then we'll find 

Ye're still as great a stirk. ^ 

But if the lover's raptured hour 

Shal' ever be your lot, 
Forbid ii, every heavenly power, 

You e'er should be a stot- ! 

Though, when some kind connubial 
dear 

Your but-and-ben^ adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And in your lug, most reverend James, 
To hear you roar and rowte,^ 

Few men o' sense will doubt your 
claims 
To rank amang the nowte.^ 

And when ye're number'd wi' the de^, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
"Wi' j ustice they may mark your head, 

** Here lies a famous bullock !" 



WILLIE CHALMERS. 

Mr. W. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, 
a particular friend of mine, asked me to 
write a poetic epistle to a young lady, his 
dulcinea. I had seen her, but was scarcely 
acquainted with her, and wrote as follows : 

Madam: 
Wi' braw new branks,^ in mickle pride, 

And eke- a braw new brechan,^ 
My Pegasus I'm got astride. 

And up Parnassus pechin;"* [crush, 
Whiles owre a bush, wi' downward 

The doited beastie^ stammers; 
Then up he gets, and off he sets, 

For sake o' Willie Chalmers. 

I doubt na, lass, that weel-kenn'd name 

May cost a pair o' blushes; 
t am nae stranger to your fame, 

Nor his warm-urged wishes. 
Your bonny faeie, sae mild and sweet, 
His honest heart enamours, 
And faith ye'll no be lost a whit. 

Though waired** on Willie Chalmers : 



1 A one-year-old-bullock. ^ Ox. 
imd parlour. •* Bellow. * Cattle. 

» Bridle. 2 Also. s Collar. 
•Stupid animal. * Spent. 



3 Kitchen 



Panting. 



Auld Truth hersel might swear ye'H 
fair. 

And Honour safely back her. 
And Modesty assume your air. 

And ne'er a ane mistak' her: 
And sic twa love-inspiring een 

Might fire even holy palmers; 
Nae wonder then they've fatal been 

To honest Willie Chalmers. 

I doubt na Fortune may you shore'' [tie^ 

Some mim-mou'd^ pouther'd^ pries' 
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore. 

And band upon his breastie: 
But oh ! what signifies to you 

His lexicons and grammars, 
The feeling heart's the royal blue, 

And that's wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Some gapin', glowrin'*' country laird 

May warsale^' for your favour; 
May claw his lug'^ and straik^^ hi 
beard. 

And hoast'"* up some palaver,. 
My bonny maid, before ye wed 

Sic clumsy- witted hammers, '^ " 
Seek Heaven for help, and barefil 
skelp^^ 

Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers, 

Forgive the bard! my fond regard 

For ane that shares my bosom '. 

Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues. 

For deil a hair I roose'" him. 
May powers aboon unite you soon. 

And fructify your amours, — 
And every year come in mair dear 

To you and Willie Chalmers. 



TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY.* 

" No poet," says Cunningham, " ever embla« 
zoned fact with fiction more happily than 
Burns : the hero of this poem was a respect- 
able old nursery-seedsman in Kilmarnock 
greatly addicted to sporting, and one of the 
poet's earliest friends, who loved curling on 
the ice in winter, and shooting on the 
moors in the season. When no longer able 
to march over hill and hag in quest of 
' Paitricks, teals, moor-pouts, and plivers,' 



'' Promise. ^ Prim. » Powdered, i" Staring. 
11 Strive. »2 Ear. i3 Stroke. ^* Cough. 
15 Blockheads. »« Run. 1^ Flatter. 

* When this worthy old sportsman went 
out last muirfovvl season, he supposed it was 
to be. in Ossian's phrase, " the last of his 
fields; and expressed an ardent wish to die 
and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the 
author composed his elegy and epitaph.— B. 



POEMS. 



08 



' he loved to lie on the lang settie, and listen 
to the dccji of others on field and flood; 
and wlicn a j,'ood tale was told, he would 
cry, ' Hech, man! three at a shot; that was 
famous!' Some one havmg informed Tam, 
in his old age, that Burns had written a poem 
— ' a gay queer ane ' — concerning him, he 
sent for the bard, and, in something hke 
wrath; requested to hear it: he smiled grim- 
ly at the relation of his exploits, and then 
cried out, 'I'm no dead yet, Robin --I'm 
worth ten 'dead fowk: wherefore should ye 
say that I am dead?' Burns took the hint, 
retired to the window for a minute or so, 
and coming back, recited the ' per Contra,' 

' Go, Fame, and canter like a filly,' 

with which Tam was so delighted that he 
rose unconsciously, rubbed his hands, and 
exclaimed, ' That'l do — ha! ha! — that'l do!' 
He survived the poet, and the epitaph is in- 
scribed on his gravestone in the churchyard 
of Kilmarnock." 

•' An honest man's the noblest work of God." 

— POPF. 

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? 
Or great Mackinlayf thrawn^ liis lieelC 
Or Robinson:|: again grown weel. 

To preach and read? 
•* Na, waur than a' !" cries ilka* chiel, 

" Tam Samson's dead!" 

Kilmarnock lang may grunt and grane, 

And sigh, and sob, and greet^ her 

lane, [wean 

And cleed^ her bairns, man, wife, and 

In mourning weed; 
To Death, she's dearly paid the kane"* — 

Tam Samson's dead! 

The brethren o' the mystic level 
May hing their head in waefu' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will re- 
vel, 

Like ony bead; 
Death's gien the lodge an unco deveP — 

Tam Samson's dead! 

Wlien Winter muffles up his cloak. 
And bin(^s the mire up like a rock; 



1 Twisted. 2 Cry. 3 Clothe. * Rent paid 
in kind. ^ Blow. 

t A certain preacher, a great favourite with 
the million. Vz'de " The Ordinatibn," stanza 
II.^B. . 

t Another preacher, an equal favourite with 
the few, who was at that time ailing. For 
him, se? ?^3o "The Ordiaation," stanza IX.— 



«. 



When to the lochs the curlers flock 
Wi' gleesome speed, 

Wlia will they station at the cock? — 
Tam Samson's dead! 

He was the king o' a' the core. 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore; 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time o' need; [score,- , 
But now he lags on Death's hojj. 

Tam Samson's deadl 

Now safe the stately salmon sail, 
And trouts be-dropp'd wi' crimson bail. 
And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail. 

And geds" for greed. 
Since dark in Death's fish-creel we wail 

Tam Samson's deadl 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks' a'; 

Ye cootie^ moorcocks, crousely^ craw; 

Ye maukins,'^ cock your fud fu' braw, 

Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa,' — 

Tam Samson's deadl 

That waefu' morn be ever mourn'd 
Saw him in shootin' graith'^ adorn' d 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed; 
But, och ! he gaed and ne'er retum'di 

Tam Samson's dead! 

In vain auld age his body batters; 
In vain the gout his ankles fetters; 
In vain the burns cam' down like w» 
ters. 

An acre braid! 
Now every auld wife, greetin' clatterai 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Owre mony a weary hag'^ he limpit. 
And aye the tither shot he thumpit,** 
Till coward Death behind him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide;'* 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout^^ o" trumpet, 

Tam Samson's deadl 

When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger. 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aim'd heed; 
" Lord, five!" he cried, and owre di<3 
stagger— 

Tam Samson's dead! 



6 Pikes, '' Whirring partridges ^ Feather- 
legged. » Gleefully, ^o Hares. " Dres*. 

i3|v|Qs§, "Fired, i* Fend, " 3ouii4, 



m 



BURNS' WORKS. 






Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father: 
Yon a aid gray stane, amang the hea- 
ther, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming 
blether, 

Tam Samson's dead! 
There low he lies, in lasting rest; 
Perhaps upon his mouldering breast 
iSome spitfu' moorfowl bigs her nest. 

To hatch and breed; 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When august winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his memory crave 

0' pouther and lead. 
Till Echo answer f rae her cave — 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Heaven rest his saul, whar'er he be ' 
Is the wish o' mony mae than me; 
He had twa fauts, or maybe three. 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social honest man want we — 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel-wom clay here lies 
Ye canting zealots, spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'U mend or ye win near him. 

PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly, 
Through a' the streets and neuks o' 

Killie,§ 
Tell every social, honest billie 

To cease his grievin', 
For yet, unscaithed^^ by Death's gleg 
gullie,^' 

Tam Samson's leevin' ! 



A PRAYER, 

LBPT BY THE AUTHOR AT A REVER- 
END friend's HOUSE, IN THE 
ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT, 

O Thou dread Power, who reign'st 
above I 

"Unharmed. >' Sharp knife, 
§ KilHe is a phrase the country-folks some- 
times use for the name of a certain town in 

t)Ki w?§t tKilmaniQQk,J— 9, 



I know Thou wilt me hear, 
Wlien for this scene of peace and Ion 
I make my prayer sincere. 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke. 
Long, long, be pleased to spare 1 

To bless his filtal little flock. 
And show what good men are. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 
With tender hopes and fears. 

Oh, bless her with a mother's joys, 
But spare a mother's tears ! 

Their hope — their stay — their darlinj 
youth, 

In manhood's dawning blush — 
Bless him. Thou God of love an 
truth. 
Up to a parent's wish ! 

The beauteous seraph sister-band, 
With earnest tears I pray, [hand- 

Thou know'st the snares on evei 
Guide Thou their steps alway ! 

When -soon or late they reach ths 
coast. 

O'er life's rough ocean driven. 
May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, 

A family in heaven 1 



THE BRIGS OF AYR. 

INSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, 
ESQ,, AYR. 

In the autumn of 1786, a new bridge was be 
gun to be erected over the river at Ayr, i 
order to supersede an old structure whic 
had long been found unsuitable, and 
then becoming dangerous ; and while th 
work was being proceeded with, under th 
chief magistracy of Mr. Ballantyne, th( 
poet's generous patron, he seized the oppa 
tunity to display his gratitude by inscnbin 
the poem to him. The idea of the poem ap 
pears to have been taken from Fergusson' 
Dialogue between the Plainstanes and th 
Causeway ;" the treatment of the subject h 
however, immeasurably superior to the old 
er piece, and peculiarly Burns' own. 

The simple bard, rough at the rust: 
plough, [bough 

Learning his tuneful trade from every 
The chanting linnet, or the. mellow 
thrush, [green-thorn bush ; 

Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in th« 
The soaring lark, the perching red- 



POEMS. 



97 



Or deep-toned plovers, gray, wild- 
whistling o'er the hill ; [shed, 
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly 
To hardy independence bravely bred, 
By early poverty to hardship steel'd. 
And train'd to arms in stern Misfor- 
tune's field— [crimes, 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling 
The servile, mercenary Swiss of 

rhymes ? 
Or labour hard the panegyric close. 
With all the venal soul of dedicating 
prose ? [rudely sings. 

No ! though his artless strains ht 
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er 
the strings, [bard, 

He glows with all the spirit of the 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear 
reward ! [he trace. 

Still, if some patron's generous care 
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with 
grace ; [ble name. 

When Ballantyne befriends his hum- 
And hands the rustic stranger up to 
fame, [bosom swells, 

With heart-felt throes his grateful 
The god-like bliss, to give, alone ex- 
cels. 

'Twas when the stacks get on their 

winter-hap,^ [won crap ; 

And thack ^ and rap6 secure the toil- 

Potato-bings ^ are snugged up f rae 

skaith * [breath ; 

3' coming Winter's biting, frosty 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer 

toils, [cious spoils 

[Jnnumber'd buds and flowers' deli- 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive 

waxen piles, [the weak, 

^re doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er 
The death o' devils, smoor'd ^ wi' brim- 
stone reek : [every side. 
The thundering guns are heard on 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter 

wide • [Nature's tie, 

rhe feather'd field-mates, bound by 
5ires, mothers, children, in one carnage 

lie [bleeds, 

What warm, poetic heart, but inly 
Ind execrates man's savage, ruthless 

deeds !) 



^Covering. 2 Thatch. ^ Heaps. 
Sffiotberea. 



Harm. 



Nae mair the flower in field or meadow 

springs, [rings, 

Nae mair the grove with airy concert 
Except, perhaps, the robin's whistling 

glee, [titt:. 

Proud o' the height o' some bit half -h'.ni] 
The hoary morns precede the suniiy 

days, [noontide bla. e 

Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads tn, 
While thick the gossamer waves wan 

ton in the rays. 

'Twas in that season, when a simpL 

bard, [ward. 

Unknown and poor, simplicity's ro- 

Ae night, within the ancient brugh of 

Ayr, [care, 

By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' 
He left his bed and took his wayward 

route, [left about: 

And down by Simpson's* wheel'd the 
(Whether impell'd by all-directing 

Fate, 
To witness what I after shall narrate; 
Or penitential pangs for former sins. 
Led him to rove by quondam Merran 

Dins; 
Or whether, rapt in meditation high. 
He wander'd out, he knew not where 

nor why) [ber'd two. 

The drowsy Dungeon clockf had num- 
And Wallace Tower:j: had sworn the 

fact was true: [ing roar. 

The tide-swoln Firth, wi' sullen sound- 
Through the still night dash'd hoarse 

along the shore. [ee: 

All else was liush'd as Nature's closed 
The silent moon shone high o'er tower 

and tree: [beam, 

The chilly frost, beneath the silver 
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glitter- 
ing stream. 

When, lo! on either hand the listening 
bard, [lieard ; 

The clanging sugh of whistling wings is 

Two dusky forms dart through tlu) 
midnight air [ing hare; 

Swift as the gos§ drives on the wheel- 

* A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end,— B. 

t A clock in a steeple connected with the 
old jail of Ayr. 

$ The clock in the fVallace Tower— an 
anomalous piece of antique masonry, sur- 
mounted by a spire, which formerly stood in 
the High street of Ayr. 

§ The goshawk, or f aleon.— 8, 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Ane on the Auld Brig his airy shape 

uprears, 
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers: 
Our warlock rhymer instantly descried 
1'he sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr 
preside. [joke, 

(That bards are second-sighted is nae 
And ken the lingo of the spiritual folk; 
Fays, spunkies, kelpies, a', they can 
explain them, [ken^ them.) 

And even the very deils they brawly 
Auld Brig appear'd o' ancient Pictish 

race, 
The very wrinkles Gothic in his face* 
He seeni'd as he wi' Time had wars- 
tied lang, [bangS 
Yet, teughly doure,'' he bade an unco 
New Brig was buskit in a braw new 

coat, 
That he at Lon'on frae ane Adams got; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's 

a bead, 
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round with anx- 
ious search, [arch; — 
Spying the time-worn flaws in every 
\It chanced his new-come neibor took 
his ee, [lie ! 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had 
Wi' thieveless^ sneer to see his modish 
mien, [e'en: — 
He, down the water, gies him this guid 

AULD BRIG. 

£ doubt nafrien', ye'll think ye're nae 
sheep-shank, '° [to bank ! 

Ance ye were streekit" owre frae bank 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me — 
Though, faith, that date I doubt ye'll 
never see — [a boddle,^*^ 

Ihere'll be, if that date come, I'll wad 
Some fewer whigmaleeries in your nod- 
dle. 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little 

mense,'^ [sense; 

Just much about it, wi' your scanty 

Will your poor narrow footpath of a 

street — [when they meet — 

Where twa wheelbarrows tremble 



« Well know. ' Toughly obdurate. » He 
endured a mighty blow. ^ Spited. '" No 
worthless thing. " Stretched, ^^ Bet a 
^it, "Civilitf, 



Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane and 
* lime, [time 1 

Compare wi' bonny brigs o' modem 
There's men o' taste would tak the 

Ducat Stream, II [and swim, 

Though they should cast the very sark 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' 

the view 
O' sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk l^"* puff'd up wi 

windy pride! [and tide- 

This mony a year I've stood the floot ' 

And though wi' crazy eild^^ I'm sail 

forfairn,"' [cairn 

I'll be a brig when ye're a shapelet 
As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
But twa-three winters will inform y- 

better. [rains 

When heavy, dark, continued, a'-da} 
Wi' deepening deluge, o'erflow tii< 

plains, [brawling Coi? 

When from the hiils where springs tli< 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil 
Or where the Greenock winds his moor 

land course, [source 

Or haunted Garpal'^ draws his feebl* 
Aroused by blustering winds and spot 

ting thovves, [rowes; 

In mony a torrent down his snaw-bro<j 
While crashing ice, borne on the roar- 
ing spate, ^^ [thegate;"^ 
Sweeps dams, and mills, and brigs a' to 
And from Glenbuck,** down to tlio 

Ratton-key.ff [ling sea— ji 

Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumb-* ' 
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never 

rise ! [pouring skies. 

And dash the gumlie jaups^"* up to the 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That Architectuie's noble art is lost 1 



14 Fool. 15 Age. »' Enfeebled, i^ Flood. 
i« Way. i» Muddy spray. 

II A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.— 
B. 

* The Banks of Garpai Water— one of the 
i ' places in the West of Scotland wheie 
tL-.se fancy-scaring bein^rs known by the 
name of ghaists still continue pertinaciously 
to inhabit.— B. 

** The source of the river Ayr.- B. 

tt A small landing-place abpve the large 
key.— B, 



POEMS. 



m 



NEW BRIG, 

Fine Arcliitecture, trovvth, I needs 

must say o't, [the gate o't ! 

The Lord be tliankit that we've tint'-^^ 

jGaunt. ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 

'Hanging with threatening jut, like 

precipices; [coves, 

O'erarching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony 

groves; [ture drest, 

Windows and doors, in nameless sculp- 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; 
jForms like some bedlam statuary's 

dream, [whim; 

'The crazed creations of misguided 
■Forms might be worship'd on the ben- 
' ded knee, [free, 

And still the second dread command be 
'Their likeness is not found on earth, in 

air, or sea, [building taste 

Mansions that would disgrace the 
Of any mason reptile, bird, or beast; 
Fit only for a doited"^' monkish race, 
'Or frosty maids forsworn the dear 

embrace ; [notion 

Or cuifs'-^^ of later times wha held the 
That sullen gloom was sterling true 
' devotion ; 
Fancies that our guid brugh denies 

protection ! [with resurrection ! 

And soon may they expire, unblest 

AULD BRIG. 

' O ye, my dear-remember'd ancient 
yealings,'^^ |-g^ feelmgs ! 

Were ye but here to share mj wound- 
Ye worthy proveses, and mony a bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did 
toil aye , [veeners, 

Te dainty deacons, and ye douce con- 
To whom our moderns are but causey- 
cleaners ! [town ; 
Ye godly councils wha hae blest this 
Ye godly brethren o' the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gae your hurdles to the 
smiters ; [godly writers ; 
And (what would now be strange) ye 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the 
broo,'^-* [or do ! 
Were ye but here, what would ye say 
How would your spirits groan in deep 
. vexation 



'0 Lost. 31 Stupid. 22 Fools. 83 Coevals. 
•• Water. 



To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And, agonizing, curse the time and 
place [race ! 

When ye begat the base, degenerate 
Nae langer reverend men, their coun- 
try's glory, [braid story ! 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain 
Nae langer thrifty citizens and douce. 
Meet owre a pint, or in the council- 
house ; [less gentry, 
But staumrel,'^^corkey-headed, grace- 
The herryment and ruin of the coun- 
try ; [by barbers. 
Men three parts made by tailors and 
Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on 
damn'd new brigs and harbours 1 

NEW BRIG, 

Now hand you there ! for faith ye Ve 
said enough, [through ; 

And muckle mair than ye can mak to 
That 's aye a string auld doited gray- 
beards harp on, [on, 
A topic for their peevishness to carp 
As for your priesthood, I shall say but 
little, ^ [tie ; 
Corbies and clergy are a shot right kit- 
But, under favour o' your langer 
beard, [spared ; 
Abuse o' magistrates might weel be 
To liken them to your auld - warld 



I must needs say comparisons are odd. 
In Ayr, wag- wits nae mair can hae a 
handle [dal ; 

To mouth ' ' a citizen" a term o' scan- 
Nae mair the council waddles down 

the street, 
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 
No difference but bulkiest or tallest. 
With comfortable dullness in for bal- 
last ; [caution. 
Nor shoals nor currents need a pilot's 
For regularly slow, they only witness 
motion ; [hops and raisins. 
Men wha grew wise priggin' owre 
Or gather'd liberal views in bonds and 
seisins, [tramp. 
If haply Knowledge, on a random 
Had shored"^® them wi' a glimmer of his 
lamp, [betray'd them. 
And would to Common Sense for one© 



« Half-witted. " Exposed. 



100 



BURNS' WORKS. 



ti ! 



Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindlj in to 
aid them. 



What further clishmaclaver ^^ might 

been said, [to shed; 

What bloody wars, if sprites had blood 

No man can tell ; but all before their 

sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright ; 
Adown the glittering stream they feat- 

ly danced ; 
Bright to the moon their various dress- 
es glanced ; [neat, 
They footed o'er the watery glass so 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath 
their feet ; [rung. 
While arts of minstrelsy among them 
And soul-ennobling bards heroic dit- 
ties sung. 
Oh, had M'Lachlan, || thairm^^-inspir- 
ing sage, [engage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band 
When through his dear strathspeys 

they bore with Highland rage; 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melt- 
ing airs. 
The lover's raptured joys or bleeding 
cares; [nobler fired, 

How would his Highland lug'^^ been 
And even his matchless hand with 
finer touch inspired ! [appear'd. 

No guess could tell what instrument 
But all the soul of Music's self was 

heard; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
While simple melody pour'd moving 
on the heart. 

The Genius of the stream in front 
appears, 
A venerable chief advanced in years; 
His hoary head with water-lilies 

crown'd, [bound. 

His manly leg with garter-tangle 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the 
■ ring, [with Spring; 

Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand 
Then, crown'd with flowery hay, came 

Rural Joy, [eye: 

Ind Summer, with his fervid beaming 



a'' Palaver. 2h Cat-gut. 29 Ear. 
Xt A well-known performer of Scottish music 
m the violin.— B. 



All-clieering Plenty, with her flowing 

horn, [nodding com, 

Led yellow Autumn, wreathed with 

Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did 

hoary show; 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next follow'd Courage, with his mar- 
tial stride, [coverts hide; 
From where the Feal § § wild-woody 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A female fbrm came from the towers 
of Stair: 1 1 [trode 
Learning and Worth in equal measures 
From smple Catrine, their long-loved 
abode :^^ [a hazel wreath, 
Last, white-robed Peace, crowned with 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death; 
At sight of whom our sprites forgat 
their kindling wrath. 



LINES 



ON AfEETING WITH LOED DAER. 

In 1786, Professor Dugald Stewart, the well- 
known expounder of the Scottish system 
of metaphysics, resided in a villa at Catrine, 
on the Ayr, a few miles from the poet's 
farm; and having heard of his astonishing 
poetical productions, through Mr. Macken- 
zie, a talented and generous surgeon in 
Mauchline, he invited Bums to dine with 
him, accompanied by his medical friend. 
The poet seems to have been somewhat 
alarmed at the idea of meeting so distm- 
guished a member of the literary world; 
and, to increase his embarrassment, it hap- 

Eened that Lord Daer, (son of the Earl of 
elkirk,) an amiable young nobleman, was 
on a visit to the professor at the time. I'hs 
result, however, appears to have been rath- 
er agreeable than otherwise to the poet, 
who has recorded his feelings on the sul»- 
ject in the following lines :— 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty third, 
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day ! 
Sae far I sprachled^ up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a lord. 

> Clambered. 

§§ The poet here alludes to Captain Mont-« 
gomery of Coilsfield— soger Hugh— afterwards 
twelfth Earl of Eglinton, whose seat of Coils^ 
field is situated on the Feal, or Faile, a tribu- 
tary stream of the Ayr. 

Ill A compliment to his early patroness, Mrs. 
Stewart of Stair. 

tt A well-merited tribute to Professor Di 
gald Stewart. 



f 



POEMS. 



lot 



I've been at drucken writers' feasts, 
Nay, been bitcli fou 'mang godly 
priests; 

(Wi' rev'rence be it spoken !) 
I'ye even join'd the honour'd jorum 
When mighty squireships o' the quo- 
rum. 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But vri' a lord ! — stand out, my shin: 
A lord — a peer — an earl's son ! — 

Up higher yet, my bonnet ! 
And sic a lord ! — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our peerage he o'erlooks them a'. 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 

But, oh ! for Hogarth's magic power ! 
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glower,'-^ 

And how he stared an stam- 
mer' d ! 
When goavan,^ as if led wi' branks,^ 
And stumpin' on his ploughman shanks 

He in the parlour hammer'd. 

'lo meet good Stewart little pain is. 
Or Scotia's sacred Demosthenes; 

Thinks I, they are but men ! 
But Burns, my lord — guid God ! I 

doited \^ 
My knees on ane anither knoited,^ 
As faultering I gaed ben V 

T sidling shelter'd in a nook, 
And at his lordship steal't a look. 

Like some portentous omen; 
Except good sense and social glee, 
And (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch'd the symptoms o' the great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state. 

The arrogant assuming; 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his lordship I shall learn 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another; 
Nae honest, worthy man need care 
To meet wi' noble, youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



• Bewildered stare. 3 Moving 
ttupidly. ■» Bridle. * Became stupefied. 
• Knocked. ' Into the room. 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 

Writing to his friend, William Chalmers, the 

foet says : "I enclose you two poems, whici 
have carded and spun since I passed 
Glenbuck. ' Fair Burnet ' is the heavenl/ 
Miss Burnet, daughter of Lord Monboddo., 
at whose house I have had the honour to be 
more than once. There has not been any. 
thing nearly like her in all the combinations 
of beauty, grace, and goodness the great 
Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve oa 
the first day of her existence 1" 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat! 

All hail thy palaces and towers, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sovereign powers! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers. 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. 
And singing, lone, the lingering hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

Here wealth still swells the golden 
tide. 

As busy Trade his labour plies; 
There Architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise; 
Here Justice, from her native skies. 

High wields her balance and her rod; 
There Learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks Science in her coy abode. 

Thy sons, Edina! social, kind. 

With open arms the stranger hail; 
Their views enlarged, their liberal 
mind. 

Above the narrow, rural vale; 
Attentive still to Sorrow's wail. 

Or modest Merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name ! 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn. 

Gay as the gilded summer sky. 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. 

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy I 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye. 

Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine; 
I see the Sire of Love on high. 

And own His work indeed divine. 

There, watching high the least alarms. 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams 
afar: 
Like some bold veteran, gray in arms. 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar: 
The ponderous wall and massy bar 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, 
Have oft withstood assailing war. 

And oft repell'd the invader's shock. 



102 



BURNS' WORKS. 



With awe-struck thought, and pitying 
tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome, 
Where Scotia's kings of other years. 

Famed heroes! had their royal home; 
Alas! how changed the times to come! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild -wandering 
roam! [just. 

Though rigid law cries out, 'Twas 

Wild beats my heart to trace your 
steps, 

Wliose ancestors, in days ©f yore. 
Through hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore; 
Even I who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply, my sires have left their shed, 
And faced grim Danger's loudest roar, 

Bold- following where your father's 
led! 

Edina! Scotia's darling seat! 

All hail thy palaces and towers, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sovereign powers! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers. 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. 
And singing, lone, the lingering hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 



THE POET'S WELCOME TO HIS 
ILLEGITIMATE CHILD.* 

There can be no doubt that the feeling which 

})rompted the composition of this and simi- 
ar poems was not that of the reckless liber- 
tine who was lost to all shame and was 
without regard for the good opinion of his 
fellows. Lockhart hits the truth when he 
says:—" 'To wave ' (in his own language) 

* the quantum of the sin,' he who, two years 
afterwards, wrote the ' Cotter's Saturday 
Night' had not, we may be sure, hardened 
his heart to the thought of bringing addi- 
tional sorrow and unexpected shame to the 

* The subject of these verses was the poet's 
Illegitimate daughter whom, in " The Inven- 
tory," he styles his 

" Sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess." 

She grew up to womanhood, was married, 
and had a ^mily. Her death is thus an- 
lounced in the Scots Magazine, December 8. 
1817: — "Died, Elizabeth Burns, wife of Mr. 
fohn Bishop, overseer at Polkemmet, near 
Whitburn. She was the daughter of the cel- 
ebrated Robert Burns, and the subject of 
oi his most beautiful lines. 



fireside of a widowed mother. But his false 
pride recoiled from letting his jovial associ- 
ates guess how little he was able to drown 
the whispers of the ' still small voice;' and 
the fermenting bitterness of a mind ill at ease 
within itself escaped, (as may be too often 
traced in the history of satirists,) in the 
shape of angry sarcasms against others, 
who, whatever their private errors might be, 
had at least done him no wrong. It is im- 
possible not to smile at one item of consola* 
tion which Burns proposes to himself on 
this occasion : — 

The mairthey talk, I'm kenn'd the better: 
E'en let them clash ! 
This is indeed a singular manifestation of 
' the last infirmity of noble minds.' " 

Thou's welcome, wean ! mishanter' 

fa' me. 
If ought of thee, or of thy mammy. 
Shall ever danton me, or awe me, 

My sweet wee lady, 
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me 

Tit-ta or daddy. 

Wee image of my bonny Betty, 
I fatherly will kiss and daut'^ thee. 
As dear and near my heart I set thee 

Wi' as guid will. 
As a' the priests had seen me get thee 

That's out o' hell. 

What though they ca' me fornicator, 
And tease my name in kintra clatter:^ 
The mair they talk I'm kenn'cl the 
better, 

E'en let them clash !* 
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless' 
matter 

To gie ane fash,* 

Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint. 

My funny toil Is now a' tint. 

Sin' thou came to the warld asklent,'' 

Which fools may scoff at; 
In my last plack thy part's be in't — 

The better half o't. 

And if thou be what I wad hae thee. 
And tak the counsel I shall gie thee, 
A lovin' father I'll be to thee. 

If thou be spared, [thee; 
Through a' thy childish years I'll ec 

And think 't weel wared. 

Guid grant that thou may aye inherit 
Thy mither's person, grace, and merit. 



1 Misfortune, ^ Fondle. ^ Country talk j 
* Gossip. * Very small. * Trouble. * Irreg' i 
ularly. 



POEMS. 



1TJ3 



And thy poor worthless daddy's spirit, 
Without his failin's, 

'Twill please me mair to hear and see't. 
Than stockit mailins.^ 



TO MRS C , 

ON RECEIVING A WORK OP HANNAH 
MORE'S. 

Thou flattering mark of friendship 

kind, 
Still may thy pages call to mind 

The dear, the beauteous donor ! 
Though sweetly female every part. 
Yet such a head, and more the heart, 

Does both the sexes honour. 
She show'd her taste refined and just 

When she selected thee. 
Yet deviating, own t must, 
For so approving me. 

But kind still, I mind still 

The giver in the gift, 
I'll bless her, and wiss her 
A friend above the lift.^ 



TO MISS LOGAN. 

"WITH BEATTIE'S poems AS A NEW- 
YEAR'S gift, JAN. I, 1787, 
Miss Susan Logan was the sister of the Major 
Logan, to whom Burns wrote a rhymed 
epistle. He was indebted to both for many 
pleasant hours when he was suffering from 
despondency. 

Again the silent wheels of time 
Their annual round have driven, 

And you, though scarce in maiden 
prime, 
Are so much nearer heaven. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail; 
I send you more than India boasts, 

In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 
Is charged, perhaps, too true, 

But may, dear maid, each lover prove 
An Edwin still to y ou 1 



VERSES 

INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN BELOW A 
NOBLE earl's PICTURE. 

^The enclosed stanzas,' said the poet, in a 
letter to his patron, the Earl of Glencairn, 



• Stocked farms. 



»§lw. 



" I intended to write below a picture or 
profile of your lordship, could I have been 
so happy as to procure one with anything of 
a likeness.'' 

Whose is that noble, dauntless brow ? 

And whose that eye of fire ? [mien 
And whose that generous princely 

Even rooted foes admire ? 

Stranger, to justly show that brow, 
And mark that eye of fire, [tints 

Would take His hand, whose vernal 
His other works admire. 

Bright as a cloudless summer sun, 
With stately port he moves; 

His guardian seraph eyes with awe 
The noble ward he loves. 

Among the illustrious Scottish sons 
That chief thou mayst discern: 

Mark Scotia's fond returning eye- 
It dwells upon Glencairn. 



TO A HAGGIS. 

The haggis is a dainty peculiar to Scotlatld, 
though it is supposed to be an adaptation 
of a French dish. It is composed of minced 
ofifal of mutton, mixed with meal and suet, 
to which are ridded various condiments by 
way of seasoning, and the whole is tied up 
tightly in a sheep's stomach, and boiled 
therein. Although the mgredients of this 
dish are not over inviting, the poet does not 
far exceed poetic.l license in singing its 
praises. We would recommend the reader 
to turn to page 173 of vol. i. of Wilson's 
"Noctes Ambrosianae,'' where he will find 
a graphic and humorous description of a 
monster haggis, and what resulted from 
cutting it up. The Edinburgh Literary 
Journal^ 1829 . made the following state 
ment .— '' About sixteen years ago there re- 
sided at Mauchline Mr Robert Morrison, 
cabinetmaker. He was a great crony of 
Burns', and it was in Mr Morrison's house 
that the poet usually spent the ' mids 0' the 
day ' on Sunday. It was in this house that 
he wrote his celebrated ' Address to a Hag- 
gis, after partaking liberally of that dish as 
prepared by Mrs. Morrison. 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie ' face, 
Great chieftain o' the puddin' race 1 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm .• 
Weel are ye worthy of a grace 

As lang 's my arm. 



Joll^r. a 3ffi^U intestines, 



104 



BURNS' WORKS. 



11 



The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin* wad help to mend a mill 

In time of need, 
While through your pores the dews 
distil 

Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic labour dight,' 
And cut you up wi' ready slight. 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright 

Like ony ditch ; 
And then, oh, what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin',"* rich ! 

Then horn for horn they stretch and 

strive, 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive. 
Till all their weel-swali'd kytes belyve f 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld guidman, maist like to rive,^ 

Bethankit hums. 

Is there that owre his French ragout. 
Or olio that wad staw a sow,^ 
Or fricassee wad make her spew'' 

Wi' perfect scunner, ^ 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' 
view 

On sic a dinner? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 
As feckless' as a wither'd rash. 
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash. 

His nieve'o anit ; 
Through bloody flood or field to dash, 

Oh, how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed. 

The trembling earth resounds his 

tread, 
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He '11 mak it whissle ; 
And legs, and arms, and heads will 
sued,'' 

Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye powers wha mak mankind your 

care. 
And dish them out their bill o' fare. 



' Wipe. « Smoking. » Burst. « Pig 
•Vomit. SLoathmg. 'Pithless. "Fist. 
»• Cut off. 

* A wooden skewer with which it is lifted 
out and into the vessel in which it is cooked, 
t Till all their well-swoUen bellies by-and- 



Auld Scotland wants nae skinking 
ware'2 

That jaups'3 in luggies ,'< 
But if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, 
Gie her a haggis 1 



PROLOGUE. 

SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS* ON HIS BENB^ 
FIT NIGHT, MONDAY, APRIL 16, 1787. 

When by a generous public's kind ac- 
claim, [fame, 
That dearest meed is granted — honest 
When here your favour is the actor's 
lot, [got : 
Nor even the man in private life for- 
What breast so dead to heavenly vir- 
tue's glow, [f ul throe ? 
But heaves impassion'd with the grate- 
Poor is the task to please a barbar- 
ous throng, [em's song ; 
It needs no Siddons' powers in South- 
But here an ancient nation famed afar. 
For genius, learning high, as great in 

war — 
Hail, Caledonia ! name for ever dear 2 
Before whose sons I'm honour'd to ap- 
pear ! [art — 

Where every science — every nobler 
That can inform the mind, or mend 
the heart, [found. 

Is known : as grateful nations oft have 
Far as the rude barbarian marks the 

bound. 
Philosophy, no idle pedant dream. 
Here holds her search by heaven-taught 
Reason's beam ; [force. 

Here History paints with elegance and 
The tide of Empire's fluctuating course; 
Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare 

into plan. 

And Harleyf rouses all the god in man, 

When well-form'd taste and sparkling 

wit unite [bright. 

With manly lore, or female beauty 



!'•' Thin stuff. '3 Splashes. "In wooden 
dishes. 

* Mr. Woods had been the friend of Fergus- 
son. He was long a favourite actor in Edin- 
burgh, and was himself a man of some poetical 
talent. 

t Henry Mackeozje, author of " The Man ol 
Feeling.'* 



POEMS. 



109 



(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and 

grace, 
Can only cliarm us in the second place), 
Witness my heart, how oft with pant- 
ing fear, [here : 
A.S on this night, I've met these judges 
But still the hope Experience taught 
to live, [give: 
Equal to judge — you 're candid to for- 
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet. 
With decency and law beneath his 
feet : [name ; 
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's 
Like Caledonians, you applaud or 
blame. 

O Thou dread Power ! whose empire- 
giving hand [honour'd land ! 
Has oft been stretch'd to shield the 
Strong may she glow with all her an- 
cient fire ! 
May every son be worthy of his sire ! 
Firm may she rise with generous dis- 
dain [chain ! 
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's, 
Still self - dependent in her native 
shore, [loudest roar, 
Bold may she brave grim Danger's 
Till Fate the curtain drops on worlds 
to be no more. 



NATURE'S LAW. 

HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO GAVIN HAM- 
ILTON, ESQ. 

These verses were first published in Mr. Pick- 
ering's edition of the poet's works, printed 
from the original MS. in the poet s hand- 
writing. They appear to have been written 

- shortly after '" Bonny Jean " had presented 

I' him with twins. 

" Great Nature spoke — observant man 
obey'd." — Pope. 

Let other heroes boast their scars, 

The marks of sturt and strife; 
And other poets sing of wars. 

The plagues of human life- 
Shame fa' the fun, wi' sword and gun, 

To slap mankind like lumber ! 
I sing his name and nobler fame, 

Wha multiplies our number. 

Great Nature spoke, with air benign, 

"Go on, ye human race ! 
This lower world I you resign; 

Be fruitful suad increase. 



The liquid fire of strong desire 
I've pour'd it in each bosom; 

Here, in this hand, does mankind stand, 
And there is beauty's blossom \" 

The hero of these artless strains, 

A lowly bard was he, 
Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains. 

With mickle mirth and glee; 
Kind Nature's care had given his share 

Large of the flaming current; 
And all devout, he never sought 

To stem the sacred torrent. 

He felt the powerful, high behest. 

Thrill, vital, through and through; 
And sought a correspondent breast 

To give obedience due; [flowers 

Propitious Powers screen'd the young 

From mildews of abortion: 
And lo ! the bard, a great reward, 

Has got a double portion! 

Auld cantie Coil may count the day. 

As annual it returns, 
The third of Libra's equal sway, 

That gave another Burns, 
With future rhymes, and other times, 

To emulate his sire; 
To sing old Coil in nobler style. 

With more poetic fire. 

Ye powers of peace, and peaceful song, 

Look down with gracious eyes; 
And bless auld Coila, large and long. 

With multiplying joys; 
Lang may she stand to prop the land. 

The flower of ancient nations; 
And Burns' spring, her fame to sing. 

To endless generations I 



THE HERMIT. 

WRITTEN ON A MARBLE SIDEBOARD IlT 
THE HERMITAGE BELONGING TO THBJ 
DUKE OF ATHOLE, IN THE WOOD 09 
ABERFELDT. 

Whoe'er thou art, these lines now 
reading, [receding. 

Think not, though from the worlj 

I joy my lonely days to lead in 

This desert drear; [ing, 

That feU remorse, a conscience bleed- 
Hath led me here. 



m 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No thought of guilt my bosom sours, 
Free-wilT'd I fled from courtly bowers; 
For well I saw in halls and towers 
That lust and pride, 
The arch - fiend's dearest, darkest 



powers> 



In state preside. 



I saw mankind with vice inc rusted; 
1 saw that Honour's sword was rusted; 
That few for aught but folly lusted; 
That he was still deceived who trusted 

To love or friend; 
And hither came, with men disgusted. 

My life to end. 

In this lone cave, in garments lowly, 

Alike a foe to noisy folly, 

And brow-bent gloomy melanchol 

I wear away 
My life, and in my office holy 

Consume the day. 

This rock my shield, when storms are 

blowing, 
The limpid streamlet yonder flowing 
Supplying drink, the earth bestowing 

My simple food: 
But few enjoy the calm I know in 

This desert wood. 

Content and comfort bless me more in 
This grot than e'er I felt before in 
A palace — and with thoughts still soar- 
ing 

To God on high, 
Each night and morn, with voice im- 
ploring, 

• This wish I sigh — 

" Ivet me. O Lord! from life retire. 
Unknown each guilty worldly fire. 
Remorse's throb, or loose desire; 

And when I die. 
Let me in this belief expire — 

To God I fly,". 

Stranger, if full of youth and riot. 
And yet no grief has marr'd thy quiet. 
Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at 

The hermit's prayer; 
But if thou hast good cause to sigh at 

Thy fault or care; 

If thou hast known false love's vexa- 
tion, 
Or hast been exiled from thy nation, 



Or guilt affrights thy contemplation. 
And makes thee pine. 

Oh ! how must thou lament thy station, 
And envy mine! 



SKETCH OF A CHARACTER. 

" This fragment," says Bums to Dugald 
Stewart, ^' I have not shown to man Hving 
till I now send it to you. It forms the pos- 
tulata, the axioms, the definition of a cnar- 
acter, which, if it appear at all, shall be 
placed in a variety of lights. This particular 
part I send you merely as a sample of my 
hand at portrait-sketchmg," 

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping 
wight, [light: 

And still his precious self his dear de- 
Who loves his own smart shadow in 
the streets [meets: 

Better than e'er the fairest she he 
A man of fashion, too, he made his 
tour \Vamour! 

Learn'd Vive la bagatelle, et Vive 
So travell'd monkies their grimace im- 
prove, [love. 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies* 
Much specious lore, but little under- 
stood: 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood 
His solid sense by inches you must tell, 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots 

ell, 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend 
Still making work his selfish craft 
must mend. 



VERSES 

ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER THB 
DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ.. BRO- 
THER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTIC- 
ULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew 
The morning rose may blow; 

But cold successive noontide blasts 
May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's mom 
The sun propitious smiled; 

But, long ere noon, succeeding cloudl 
Succeeding hopts beguiled. 



POEMS 



107 



Fate oft tears the bosom chords 

That nature finest strung: 
So Isabella's heart was fonn'd. 

And so that heart was wrung. 

Were it in the poet's power, 
Strong as he shares the grief 

That pierces Isabella's heart, 
To give that heart relief! 

Dread Omnipotence alone 

Can heal the wound he gave;' 

Can point the brimful grief- worn eyes 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 
And fear no withering blast; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last. 



PLEGY ON THE DEATH OF SIR 

JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 

Sir James Hunter Blair, who died in 1787, was 
a partner in tne eminent banking house of 
Sir William Forbes & Co., of Edinburgh. 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging 

glare, [em wave; 

Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the west- 

The inconstant blast howl'd through 

the darkening air, [cave. 

And hollow whistled in the rocky 

lone as I wander' d by each cliff and 

dell, [royal train;* 

Once the loved haunts of Scotia's 

Or mused where limpid streams, once 

hallow'd, well,f [fane.:}: 

Or mouldering ruins mark the sacred 

The increasing blast roar'd round the 

beetling rocks, [starry sky, 

The clouds swift- wing'd flew o'er the 

The groaning trees untimely shed their 

locks, [startled eye. 

And shooting meteors caught the 

The paly moon rose in the livid east. 

And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately 

form, [breast, 

In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her 

And mix'd her wailings with the 

raving storm. 



Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I 

''dew'd: [woe, 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive 

Tht „ .^ ^i her eye in tears 

imbued. 

Reversed that spear redoubtable in war, 

Reclined that banner, erst in fields 

unfurl'd, [afar. 

That like a deathful meteor gleam'd 

And braved the mighty monarchs of 

the world. 

"My patriot son fills an untimely 

grave!" [she cried; 

With accents wild and lifted arms 

"Low lies the hand that oft was 
stretch'd to save, [honest pride. 

Low lies the heart that swell'd with 

"A weeping country joins a widow's 

tear, [phan'scry; 

The helpless poor mix with the or- 

The drooping arts surround their pa 

tron's bier, [heartfelt sigh! 

AiA grateful science heaves the 

" I saw my sons resume their ancient 
fire. [blow: 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly 
But ah ! how hope is born but to expire! 
Relentless Fate has laid their guard- 
ian low. 

" My patriot falls, but shall he lie un- 
sung, [worthless name? 
While empty greatness saves a 
No; every Muse shall join her tuneful 
tongue, [fame. 
And future ages hear his growing 

"And I will join a mother's tender 

cares, [virtues last ; 

Through future times to make his 

That distant years may boast of other 

Blairs!"— . [sleeping blast. 

She said, and vanish'd with the 



* The King's Park, at Holyrood House, 
t St. Anthony's Well. 
X St. Anthony's Chapel. 



TO MISS FERRIER, 

ENCLOSING THE ELEGY ON SDR J. H, 
BLAIR. 

Nae heathen name shall I prefix 
Frae Pindus or Parnassus; 

Auld Reekie dings' them a' to sticks, 
For rhyme-inspiring lasses. 

1 Beats. 



108 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Jove's tunefu' dochters three times 
three 

Made Homer deep their debtor; 
But, gien the body half an ee, 

Nine Ferriers wad done better! 

Last day my mind was in a bog, 
Down George's street I stoited;^ 

A creeping, cauld, prosaic fog 
My very senses doited.^ 

Do what I doughf* to set her free. 

My saul lay in the mire; 
Ye turn'd a neuk^ — I saw your ee- 

She took the wing like fire I 

The mournf u' sang I here enclose, 

In gratitude I send you; 
And [wish and] pray in rhyme sincere, 

A' guid things may attend vou 



LINES 



"WHITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE 
CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR 
OP THE INN AT KENMORE,. TAY 
MOUTH. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, 
These northern scenes with weary feet 

I trace; . [steep, 

O'er many a winding dale and painful 
The abodes of covey'd grouse and timid 

sheep. 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 
Till famed Breadalbane opens to my 

view, — [divides, 

Tlie meeting cliffs each deep -sunk glen 
The woods, wild scatter'd clothe their 

ample sides; ['mong the hills. 

The outstretching lake, embosom'd 
The eye with wonder and amazement 

fills- [pride, 

The Tay. meandering sweet in infant 
The palace, rising on its verdant side; 
The lawns, wood-fringed in Nature's 

native taste; [haste, 

The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless 
The arches, striding o'er the new born 

stream; [beam — 

The village, glittering in the noontide 

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 



' Tottered. 
•Corner, 



8 Stupefied. * Would- 



Lone wan ■ -Ting by the hermit's mossy 

cell; [woods! 

The sweeping theatre of hanging 

The incessant roar of headlong turn- 

bling floods. 

Here Poesy might wake her Heaven' 

taught lyre, [tive fire; 

And look through Nature with crea- 

Here, to the wrongs of Fate half-recon< 

ciled, [der wild, i 

Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wan- 
And Disappointment, in these lonely 
bounds, [ling wounds; 

Find balm to soothe her bitter rank- 
Here heart-struck Grief might heaven- 
ward stretch her scan, [man. 
And injured Worth forget and pardon 



^i 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF 
BRUAR WATER.* 

TO THE NOBLE BJJK.E OF ATHOLE. 

My lord, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain; 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain. 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 

In flaming summer pride, [streams, 
Dry " withering, waste my foamy 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly -jumpin' glowrin' trouts, 

That through my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts. 

They near the margin stray; 
If, hapless chance! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow, 
They 're left, the whitening stanes 
aaiang. 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen. 

As Poet Burns came by. 
That to a bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry ; 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween. 

Even as I was he shored^ me ; 
But had I in niy glory been. 

He, kneeling, wad adored me. 



• Promised. 
* Braar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly 
picturesque and beautiful : but their effect is 
much impaired by the want of trees and 
shrubs. — B. 



POEMS. 



109 



Here, foaming down the slielvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn . 
Enjoying large each spring and well, 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, although I say 't mysel. 

Worth gaun"^ a mile to see. 

Would, then, my noblest master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He '11 shade my banks wi' towering 
trees. 

And bonny spreading bushes, 
Delighted doubly, then, my lord, 

You '11 wander on my banlis. 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock,^ warbling wild. 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink. Music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir ; 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite 
clear. 

The mavis^ mild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer. 

In all her locks of yellow. 

This, too, a covert shall insure. 

To shield them from the storms ; 
And coward maukins^ sleep secure 

Low in their grassy forms ; 
The shepherd here shall make his 
seat. 

To weave his crown of flowers ; 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat 

From prone descending showers. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth, 

As empty idle care. [charms 

The flowers shall vie in all t^ieir 

The hour of heaven to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here haply, too, at vernal dawn. 
Some musing bard may stray, 

And eye the smoking dewy lawn, 
And misty mountain gray , 

Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,^ 
Mild-chequering through the trees. 



• Going. 3 Lark. 
•.Tke harvest moon. 



* Thrush. 



Hares. 



Rave to my darkly-dashing stream. 
Hoarse swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. 

My lowly banks o'erspread. 
And view, deep-bending in the pool. 

Their shadows' watery bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest, 

The close-embowering thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope. 

Your little angel band. 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land! 
So may through Albion's furthest ken, 

To social-flowing glasses. 
The grace be — " Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonny lasses !" 



LINES 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, STAITOINGI 
BY THE FALL OP FYERS, NEAR 
LOCH NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged 

woods [floods; 

The roaring Fyers pours his mossy 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds. 
Where, through a shapeless breach, 

his stream resounds, [flow. 

As high in air the bursting torrents 
As deep-recoiling surges foam below. 
Prone down the rock the whitening 

sheet descends, [rends. 

And viewless Echo's ear, astonished 
Dim seen through rising mists and 

ceaseless showers, [lowers. 

The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding. 
Still, through the gap the struggling 

river toils, [boils. 

And still, below, the horrid caldron 



CASTLE-GORDON. 

Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by Winter's chains! 

Glowing here on golden sands. 
There commix'd with foulest stains 

From tyranny's empurpled bands; 
These, their richly -gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves; 
Give me the stream that sweetly lavei 

The banks by Castle-Gordon. 



110 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray. 

Hapless wretches sold to toil. 
Or the ruthless native's way, 

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil ; 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave. 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 

The storms by Castle-Gordon. 

Wildly here without control. 
Nature reigns and rules the whole; 

In that sober pensive mood. 
Dearest to the feeling soul, [flood: 

She plants the forest, pours the 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods 
wave. 

By bonny Castle-Gordon 



ON SCARING SOME WATER 
FOWL IN LOCH TURIT. 

A "WILD SCENE AMONG THE HU.LS OF 
OCHTERTYRE. 

Why, ye tenants of the lake. 
For me your watery haunts forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly '■ 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties? — 
Common friend to you and me. 
Nature's gifts to all are free: 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave. 
Busy feed, or wanton lave; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race. 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud usurping foe. 
Would be lord of all below: 
Plumes himself in freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 
The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below. 
In his breast no pity dwells. 
Strong necessity compels: 
But man, to whom alone is given 
A ray direct from pitying Heaven, 
Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain, 
in these savage, liquid plains. 
Only known to wandering swains. 



Where the mossy rivulet straya, 

Far from human haunts and ways- 

All on nature you depend. 

And life's poor season peaceful spend. I \ 

Or, if man's supe rior might ^ 

Dare invade your native right. 

On the lofty ether borne, 

Man with all his powers you scorn; 

Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. 

Other lakes and other springs; 

And the foe you cannot brave 

Scorn at least to be his slave. 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANK, 

A VERY YOUNG LADY, WRITTEN Oil 
THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK PRE- 
SENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. 

This young lady was the subject of one of the 
poet's soRgs, " A Rosebud by my EarJy 
Walk." She was the daughter ctf Mr. Cruik- 
shank, No. 30 St. James' Square, Edin- 
burgh, with whom the poet resided for 
some time during one of his visits to Edin- 
burgh. She afterwards became the wife of 
Mr. Henderson, a solicitor m Jedburgh. 

Beauteous rosebud, young and gay. 

Blooming in thy early May, 

Never mayst thou, lovely flower! 

Chilly shrink in sleety shower ! 

Never Boreas' hoary path. 

Never Eurus' poisonous breath. 

Never baleful stellar lights. 

Taint thee with untimely blights! 

Never, never reptile thief 

Riot on thy virgin leaf! 

Not even Sol too fiercely view 

Thy bosom blushing still with dew! 

Mayst thou long, sweet crimson gem. 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 
'Till some evening, sober calm, 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm. 
While all around the woodland rings. 
And every bird thy requiem sings; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 
Shed thy d>ing honours round. 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 



POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. WIL. 
LIAM TYTLER. 

WITH A PRESENT OP THE BARD'S 
PICTURE. 

William Tytler, Esq., of Woodhouselee, to 
whom these lines were addressed, wrote a 



I»OEMS. 



Ill 



work in defence of Mary Queen of Scots, 
and earred the gratitude of Burns, who had 
all a poet's sympathies for the unfortunate 
and beautiful queen. Mr. Tytler was grand- 
father to PEtrick Fraser Tytler, the author 
of " The History of Scotland." 

Revered defender of beauteous Stu- 
art, 
Of Stuart, a nanie once respected, — 
A. name which to love was the mark of 
a true heart, 
But now 'tis despised and neglected. 

Though something like moisture con- 

globes in my eye. 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 

A poor friendless wanderer may well 

claim a sigh, [royal. 

Still more, if that wanderer were 

My fathers that name have revered on 
a throne ; 
My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degen- 
erate son, [slight it. 
That name should he scoffingly 

Still in prayers for King George I most 
heartily join. 
The queen and the rest of the gentry ; 
Be they wise, be they foolish, is noth- 
ing of mine — 
Their title's avow'd by my country. 

But why of this epocha make such a 
fuss 

That gave us the Hanover stem ; 
If bringing them over was lucky for us, 

I 'm sure 'twas as lucky for them. 

But, loyalty, truce ! we 're on danger- 
ous ground, [alter ? 
Who knows how the fashions may 
The doctrine to-day that is loyalty 
sound. 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

i send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 
A tride scarce worthy your care : 

But accept it, good sir, as a mark of re- 
gard, 
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades 

on your eye, 

And ushers the long dreary night • 

But you, like the star, that athwart 

gilds the sky. 

Your course to the latest is bright. 



ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROB- 
ERT DUNDAS, ESQ., OF ARNIS- 
TON,* 

LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT 
OF SESSION. 

In a letter to Dr. Geddes, Burns tells the fate 
of this poem, and makes his own comment: 
— "• The following elegy has some tolerable 
lines in it, but the incurable wound of ray 
pride will not suffer me to correct, or even 
peruse, it. I sent a copy of it, with my best 
prose letter, to the son of the great man, the 
theme of the piece, by the hands of one of 
the noblest men in God's world— Alexander 
Wood, surgeon. When, behold ! his solicit- 
orship took no more notice of iny poem or 
me than if I had been a strolling fiddler who 
had made free with his lady's name over a 
silly new reel ! Did the gentleman imagine 
that I looked for any dirty gratuity !" 

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying 
flocks - [tering rocks ; 

Shun the nerce storms among the sliel- 
Dovm foam the rhnilets, red with dash- 
ing rains ; [tant plains ; 
The gathering floods burst o'er the dis- 
Beneath the blast the leafless forests 

groan ; 
The hollow caves return a sullen moan. 

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye 
caves, [waves ! 

Ye howling mnds, and wintry-swelling 
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye. 
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; 
Where, to the whistling blast and wa- 
ter's roar [plore. 
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may de- 
Oli heavy loss, thy country ill could 

bear ! 
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair ! 
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, 
Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway'd 

her rod ; 
She heard the tidings of the fatal blow. 
And sunk, abandon'd to the Mrildesi 



Wrongs, injuries, from many a dark- 
some den, [men: 
Now gay in hope explore the paths of 
See, from his cavern, grim Oppression 



* Elder brother to Viscount Melville, bor* 
1713, appointed President in 1760, and die4 
December 13, 1787, after a short illneai. 



113 



BURNS' WORKS. 



i-iiid throw on Poverty his cruel eyes ; 

Keen on the helpless victim see him 

fly, [cry. 

And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting 

Mark ruffian Violence, distained with 

crimes, [times ; 

Housing elate in these degenerate 
^'iew unsuspecting Innocence a prey, 
As guileful Fraud points out the erring 

way : 
While subtle Litigation's pliant tongue 
The life-blood equal sucks of Right 

and Wrong : [listen'd tale, 

Hark ! injured Want recounts th' un- 
And much-wrong'd Misery pours the 

unpitied wail ! 

Ye dark waste hills, and brown un- 
sightly plains, [strains : 
To you I sing my grief - inspired 
Ye tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, 

roll! 
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 
Life's social haunts and pleasures I re- 
sign, . [ings mine, 
Be nameless wilds and lone wander- 
To mourn the woes my country must 
endure, [cure. 
That wound degenerate ages cannot 



TO CLARINDA, 

ON THE poet's LEAVING EDINBURGH. 

The maiden name of Clarinda was Agnes 
Craig. At the time Burns made her ac- 
quamtance she was the wife of a Mr. M'Le- 
hose, from whom she had been separated 
on account of incompatibiUty of temper, 
etc. She seems to have entertamed a sin- 
cere affection for the poet. Burns, who was 
:.lways engaged in some affair of the heart, 

■Jems to have been much less sincere. His 
Liters to her are somewhat forced and stilt- 
-d, and contrast very unfavourably with 
tliose of hers, which have been preserved. 
He soon forgot her, however, to her great 
regret and mortification. She was beautiful 
and accomplished, and a poetess. (See pre- 
fatory note to Letters to Clarinda.) Burns 
thus alludes to one of her productions :— 
" Your last verses to me have so delighted 
me that I have got an excellent old Scots air 

"at suits the measure, and you shall see 
them in print in the Sco^s Musical Museum, 

• work publishing by a friend of mine in 
-MiS town. The air is ' The Banks of Spey,' 
.„. i is most beautiful. I want four stanzas 

-you gave me but three, and one of them 
^ jided to an expression in my former let- 
*^', SO I have taken your first two verses. 



with a slight alteration in the se/ond,ard 
have added a third ; but you mv»t help me 
to a fourth. Here they are ; the latter halt 
of the first stanza would hav^ been worthy 
of Sappho ; I am in raptures jvith it ; — 

'' ' Talk not of Love, it gives jhe pain. 
For love has been my foe ; 
He bound me with an iron chain. 
And plunged me deep in woe. 

" ' But friendship's pure and lasting iovs 
My heart was lorm'd to prove ; 
There, welcome, win, and wear the prize. 
But never talk of Love. 

" ' Your friendship much can make me blest. 
Oh ! why that bliss destroy ? 
Why urge the odious [only] one request 
You know I must [will] deny ?' 

" /'..S'.— What would you think of this for .-x 
fourth stanza ? 

" ' Your thought, if Love must harbour there, 
Conceal it in that thought ; 
Nor cause me from my bosom tear 
The very friend I sought.' ' 

These verses are inserted in the second vol- 
ume of the Musical Museum. 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 
The measured time is run ! 

The wretch beneath the dreary pole. 
So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ? 
Deprived of thee, his life and light. 

The sun of all his joy ! 

We part — ^but, by these precious drops 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex. 

Has blest my glorious day; 
And shall a glimmering planet fix 

My worship to its ray ? 



TO CLARINDA- 

WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIB OF DRINK. 

ING-GLASSES. 

Fair empress of the poet's soul. 

And queen of poetesses; 
Clarinda, take this little boon. 

This humble pair of glasses. 

And fill them high with generous juice, 

As generous as your mind; 
And pledge me in the generous toast— 

" The whole of human kind 1" 



POEMS. 



118 



" To those that love us !" — second fill; 

But not to those whom we love ; 
Lest we love those who love not us ! 

A third — " To thee and me, love !" 

Long may we live ! long may we love ! 

And long may we be happy ! 
And never may we want a glass 

Well charged with generous nappy ! 



TO CLARINDA. 
Before I saw Clarinda's face. 

My heart was blithe and gay, 
Free as the wind, or feather'd race 

That hop from spray to spray. 

But now dejected I appear, 

Clarinda proves unkind; 
1, sighing, drop the silent tear, 

But no relief can find. 

In plaintive notes my tale rehearses 
When I the fair have found; 

On every tree appear my verses 
That to her praise resound. 

But she, ungrateful, shuns my sight. 

My faithful love disdains, 
My vows and tears her scorn excite — 

Another happy reigns. 

Ah, though my looks betray, 

I envy your success; 
Yet love to friendship shall give way, 

I cannot wish it less. 



TO CLARINDA. 
" I BUBN, I burn, as whefl through 

ripen'd corn, [are borne!" 

By driving winds, the crackling flames 
Now maddening wild, I curse that 

fatal night; [my guilty sight. 

Now bless the hour which charm 'd 
tn vain the laws their feeble force 

oppose; [vanquish'd foes: 

Chain'd at his feet they groan Love's 
In vain Religion meets my shrinking 

eye, 
I dare not combat — ^but I turn and fly 
Qjnscience in vain upbraids the unhal 

lewd fire, [expire; 

Love grasps its scorpions — stifled they 
Keason drops headlong from his sacred 



Your dear idea reigns, and reigns alone- 
Each tliouglil intoxicated homage 

yields, 
And riots wanton in forbidden fields ! 

By all on high adoring mortals know ! 
By all the conscious villain fears below ! 
By your dear self ! — the last great oath 

I swear — 
Nor life nor soul was ever half so dear I 



LINES 



WRITTEN IN FRIARS' CARSE HERMIT- 
AGE, ON THE BANKS OP THE NITH. 
{Firsi Version.) 

Burns thought so well of this poem, that he 
preserved both copies. The first was writ- 
ten in June, 1783. The MS. of the amended 
copy is headed, " Altered from the forego- 
ing, in December, 1788." The hermitage in 
which these lines were written was on the 
property of Captain Riddel of Friars' Carse, 
a beautiful house with fine grounds, a mile 
above Ellisland. One of the many kindlj' 
favours extend to the poet by Captain Rid 
del and his accomplished lady was the per- 
mission to wander at will in the beautiful 
grounds of Friars' Carse. The first six line? 
were graven with a diamond on a pane of 
glass in a wmdow of the hermitage. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead. 
Be thou clad in russet weed. 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these maxims on thy soul:-'- 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost; 
Day, how rapid in its flight — 
Day, how few must see the night; 
Hope not sunshine every hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 
Happiness is but a name, 
Make content and ease thy aim; 
Ambition is a meteor gleam ; 
Fame an idle, restless dream ; 
Pleasures, insects on the wing, 
Round Peace, the tenderest flower aj 

Spring ! 
Those that sip the dew alone, 
Make the butterflies thy own ; 
Those that would the bloom devour, 
Crush the locusts — save the flower. 
For the future be prepared, 
Guard whatever thou canst guard : 
But, thy utmost duly done. 
Welcome what thou canst not shun. 
Follies past give thou to &W"| 



m 



BTONS' WORKS. 



Make their consequence thy care : 
Keep the name of man in mind, 
And dishonour not thy kind. 
Reverence with lowly heart 
Him whose wondrous work thou art 
Keep His goodness still in view. 
Thy trust — and thy example, too. 

Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide, 
Quoth the Beadsman on Nithside. 



LINES 



WRITTBIf IN friars' CARSE HERMIT 
AGE4 ON NITHSIDE. 

{Second Version.) 

Thou whom chance may hither lead. 
Be thou clad in russet weed. 
Be thou deckt in silken stole. 
Grave these counsels on thy soul : — 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine every hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As Youth and Love, with sprightly 

dance. 
Beneath thy morning-star advance. 
Pleasure, with her siren air. 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptured sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh, 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summits wouldst thou 

scale ? 
Check thy climbing step, elate. 
Evils lurk in felon wait ; 
Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold. 
Soar around each cliffy hold. 
While cheerful Peace, with linnet song. 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of evening close. 
Beckoning thee to long repose ; 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney neuk of ease, 
There ruminate with sober thought 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and 

wrought ; 
And teach the sportive younkers round. 
Saws of experience sage and sound , 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 



The grand criterion of his fate. 
Is not — Art thou high or low? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Wast thou cottager or king? 
Peer or peasant ? — no such thing ! 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal Nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thyself must shortly find. 
The smile or frown of awful Heaven 
To Virtue or to Vice is given. 
Say, " To be just, and kind, and wis^, 
There solid Self enjoyment Ues; 
That-foolish, selfish, faithless ways 
Lead to the wretched, vile and base." 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 

To the bed of lasting sleep; 

Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 

Night, where dawn shall never break. 

Till future life — future no more — 

To light and joy the good restore. 

To light and joy unknown before! 

Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide 1 
Quoth the Beadsman of Nithside. 



A ]\IOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE 

DEATH OF HER SON. 

The poet says—" ' The Mother's Lament' 
was composed partly with a view to Mrs. 
Fergusson of Craigdarroch, and partly to the 
worthy patroness of my early unknown 
muse, Mrs. Stewart of Afton." It was also 
inserted in the Musical Museum^to the tune 
of " Finlayston House." 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierced my darling's hearti 
And with him all the joys are flea 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops. 

In dust dishonour'd laid; 
So fell the pride of all my hopes. 

My age's future shade. 

The mother linnet in the brake 
Bewails her ravish'd young. 

So I, for my lost darling's sake, 
Lament the live day long 

Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow. 
Now, fond, I bare my breast. 

Oh. do thou kindly lay me low 



POEMS. 



115 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. 

A SKETCH. 

Cunnineham says:— "Truly has the plough- 
man bard described the natures of those 
illustrious rivals, Fox and Pitt, under the 
similitude of the ' birdie cocks,' Nor will 
the allusion to the ' hand-cuffed, muzzled, 
half-shackled regent ' be lost on those who 
remember the alarm mto which the nation 
was thrown by the king's illness.** 

PoR lords or kings I dinna mourn. 
E'en let tliem die — for that they're 

born! 
But oh ! prodigious to reflec' ! 
A towmout,' sirs, is gane to wreck! 
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events hae taken place! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us! 
In what a pickle thou hast left us! 

The Spanish empire's tint^ a head, 
And my auld teethless Bawtie's^ dead; 
•The tulzie's"* sair 'tween Pitt and Fox, 
And our guid wife's wee birdie cocks; 
The tane is game, a bluidy devil, 
"But to the hen-birds unco civil; 
Tne tither's something dour o' treadin', 
Cut better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden. 

Xe ministers, come mount the pu'pit, 
Aind cry till ye be hoarse and roopit. 
For Eighty- eight he wisli'd you weel, 
And gied you a' baith gear^ and meal; 
E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck I** 

Ye bonny lasses , dighf' your een, 
For some o' you hae tint a frien'; 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken,^ was ta'en 
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again. 

Observe the very nowte® and sheep. 
How dowf and dowie'*' now they creep; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry, 
For Embragh wells are grutten" dry. 

O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn. 
And no owre auld, I hope to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, 
'i'hou now hast got thy daddy's chair, 
Nae hand-cuff'd, muzzled, half-shack- 
led regent, 
But like himsel, a full, free agent. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 



' Twelvemonth. " Lost. ^ His dog. 

» Fight. « Goods. « Work. ' Wipe. « Know. 
» Cattle. 10 Pithless and low spirited, i^ Wept. 



Nae waur'2 than he did, honest man f 
As muckle better as you can. 

Jan. I, 1789. 



TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL OF GLEN"= 
RIDDEL. 

EXTEMPORE LINES ON RETURNING .' 
NEWSPAPER, 

The newspaper sent contained some share 
strictures on the poet's works. 

Ellisland, Monday Evening. 

Your news and review, sir, I've read 

through and through, sir, 

With little admiring or blaming; 

The papers are barren of home news or 

foreign, [ing. 

No murders or rapes worth the nam- 

Our friends the reviewers, tliose chip- 

pers and hewers, 
Are judges of mortar and stone,sir; 
But of meet or unmeet, in a fabrio 

complete, 
I boldly pronounce they are none, sir. 

My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your 

goodness 

Bestow'd on your servant the poet; 

Would to God I had one like a beara 

of the sun, [know it I 

And then all the world, sir, should 



ODE: 



SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF 
MRS. OSWALD. 

The origin of this bitter and not very credit- 
able effusion is thus related by the poet in a 
letter to Dr. Moore :— " The enclosed ' Ode' 
is a compliment to the memory of the late 
Mrs. Oswald of Auchincruive. You prob- 
ably knew her personally, an honour which 
I cannot boast, but I spent my early years 
in her neighbourhood, and among her ser^ 
vants and tenants. I know that she was de.. 
tested with the most heartfelt cordiality. 
However, in the particular part of her con- 
duct which roused my poetical wrath she 
was much less blamable. In January last, 
oij my road to Avrshire, I had to put up at 
Bailie Whigham's m Sanquhar, the only 
tolerable inn in the place. The frost was 
keen, and the grim evening and how.inff 
wind were ushering in a nignt of snow ana 
drift. My horse and 1 were both mucli 

__^_^^_^____ -* 

" Worse. 



113 



BURNS' WORKS. 



fatigued with the labours of the day ; and 
just as my friend the bailie and 1 were bid- 
ding defiance to the storm, over a smoking 
bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantry of the 
late Mrs. Oswald ; and poor I am forced to 
brave all the terrors of the tempestuous 
night, and jade my horse— my young favor- 
ite horse, whom I had just christened 
Pegasus — further on, through the wildest 
hills and moors of Ayrshire, to New Cum- 
nock, the next inn. The powers of poesy 
and prose sink under me when I would de- 
scribe what I felt. Suffice it to say that, 
when a good tire at New Cumnock had so 
far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat down 
and wrote the enclosed 'Ode.'" The poet 
lived to think more favourably of the name : 
one of his finest lyrics, " Oh, wat ye wha's 
in yon town," was written in honour of the 
beauty of the succeeding Mrs. Oswald. 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark. 
Hangman of creation, mark ! 
Who in widow- weeds appears, 
Laden with unhonour'd years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse. 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 

STROPHE. 

View the wither'd beldam's face — 
Can thy keen inspection trace [grace ? 
Aught of humanity's sweet melting 
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 
Pity's flood there never rose. 
See these hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 
Hands that took — but never gave. 
Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 
Lo, there she goes, unpitied and 
un blest — [lasting rest ! 

She goes, but not to realms of ever- 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
(A while forbear, ye torturing fiends;) 
Seest thou whose step, unwilling hither 
bends? [skies; 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper 
'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 
She, tardy, hellward plies. 
EPODE. 

And are they of no more avail, 

Ten thousand glittering pounds a year? 

In other worlds can. Mammon fail. 

Omnipotent as he is here ? 

Oh, bitter mockery of the pompous bier, 

While down the wretched vital part is 

driven ! [science clear, 

The cave- lodged beggar, with a con- 
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to 

heavea. 



TO JOHN TAYLOR. 

" The poet," says a correspondent of Cunning- 
ham s, " it seems, during one of his journeys 
over his ten parishes as an exciseman, had 
arrived at Wanlockheld on a winter day, 
when the roads were slippery with ice, and 
Jenny Geddes, his mare, kept her feet with 
difficulty. The blacksmith of the place wef 
busied with other pressing matters in the 
forge and could not spare time for 'frosting 
the shoes of the poet's mare, and it is iikelj 
he would have proceeded on his dangerorf 
journey, had he not bethought himself o. 

Eropitiating the son of Vulcan with verse 
[e called for oen and ink, wrote these 
verses to John Taylor, a person of influence 
in Wanlockhead ; and when he had done, a 
gentleman of the name of Sloan, who ac- 
companied him, added these words :— ' J, 
Sloan's best eompliments to Mr. Taylor, and 
it would be doing him and the Ayrshire 
bard a particular favour, if he would oblige 
them instanter wath his agreeable company. 
The road has been so slippery that the riders 
and the brutes were equally in danger of 
getting some of their bones broken. For 
the poet, his life and limbs are of some con- 
sequence to the world ; but for poor Sloan 
it matters very little what may become ol 
him. The whole of this business is to ask 
the favour of getting the horses' shoes 
sharpened.' On the receipt of this, Taylor 
spoke to the smith, the smith flew to his 
tools, sharpened the horses' shoes, and, it is 
recorded, lived thirty years to say he had 
never been ' weel paid but ance, and that 
was by the poet, who paid him in money, 
paid him in drink, and paid him in verse.' '' 

With Pegasus upon a day, 

Apollo weary flying. 
Through frosty hills the journey lay. 

On foot the way was plying. 

Poor slipshod giddy Pegasus 

Was but a sorry walker; 
To Vulcan then Apollo goes. 

To get a frosty caulker.* 

Obliging Vulcan fell to work, 
Threw by his coat and bonnet. 

And did Sol's business in a crack; 
Sol paid him with a sonnet. 

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, 

Pity my sad disaster; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod — 

ril pay you like my master. 

Robert Burns. 

Ramage's, tAree <f clock. 



* A nail put into a shoe to prevent the foo» 
from slipping in frosty weather. 



POEMS. 



lit 



SKETCH: 

INSCRIBED TO THE KIGHT HON. 
C. J. FOX. 

in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop the poet says, " I 
have a poetic whim in my head, which I at 

6 resent dedicate or rather inscribe, to the 
Light Hon. Charles James Fox ; but how 
long that fancy may hold, I cannot say. A 
few of the first lines I have just rough- 
sketched as follows: " — 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and 

unite; [and their wliite; 

How virtue and vice blend their black 

How genius the illustrious father of 

fiction, [tradiction— 

Confounds rule and law, reconciles con- 

I sing: if these mortals, the critics, 

should bustle, [whistle! 

I care not, not I— let the critics go 

But now for a patron, whose name 

and whose glory [story. 

At once may illustrate and honour my 

Thou first of our orators, first of our 

wits; [seem mere lucky hits: 

Yet whose parts and acquirements 
With knowledge so vast, and with 

judgment so strong, [far wrong; 

No man with the half of 'em e'er went 
With passions so potent, and fancies so 

bright, [quite right; — 

No man with the half of 'em e'er went 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the 

Muses. 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good Lord, what is man ? for as simple 
he looks, [his crooks; 

Do but try to develop his hooks and 

With his depths and his shallows, his 
good and his evil; [the devil. 

^11 in all he's a problem must puzzle 

%)n his one ruling passion Sir Popo 
hugely labours. 

That, like the old Hebrew walking- 
switch, eats up its neighbours ; 

Mankind are his show -box — a friend, 
w ould you know him ? 

Pull the string, ruling passion the 
picture will show him. 

Wliat pity, in rearing so beauteous a 
system, [liave miss'd him ; 

One trifling particular truth, should 

For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
id is a science defies definitions. 



C 



Some sort all our qualities each to its 

tribe, [describe; 

And think human nature they truly 

Have you found this, or t'other ? there's* 

more in the wind. 
As by one drunken fellow his com- 
rades you '11 find. [the plan, 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of 
In the make of that wonderful creature 
call'd man, [claim, 
No two virtues, whatever relation they 
Nor even two different shades of the 
same, [to brother. 
Though like as was ever twin brother 
Possessing the one shall imply you 've 
the other. 

But truce with abstraction, and truce 

with a Muse, [deign to peruse: 

Whose rhymes you '11 perhaps, sir,ne'er 
Will you leave your justings, your jars, 

and your quarrels, [ding laurels 1 
Contending with Billy for proud-nod« 
My much - honour'd patron, believo 

your poor poet, 
Your courage much more than your 

prudence you show it ; 
In vain with Squire Billy for laurels 

you struggle. 
He '11 have them by fair trade, if not, 

he will smuggle ; [ceal 'em. 

Not cabinets even of kings would con- 
He 'd up the back-stairs, and by God 

he would steal 'em. 
Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'e* 

can achieve *em, [thieve him. 

It is not, outdo him, the task is oufr 



VERSES 

ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMJ? 
BY ME WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUSI 
SHOT. 

This poem was founded on a real incident 
James Thomson, a neighbour of the poet's, 
states that having shot at, and wounded a 
hare, it ran past the poet, who happened to 
be near. " He cursed me, and said he would 
not mind throwing me into the water ; and 
I'll warrant he could hae done't, though 1 
was both young and strong." 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'roua 

art, [eye ; 

And blasted be thy murder-aiming 

May never pity soothe thee Tvdth a 

sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 



219 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and 

field ! 

The bitter little that of life remains ; 

No more the thickening brakes and 

verdant plains [yield. 

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of 

wonted rest, [bed ! 

No more of rest, but now thy dying 

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er 

thy head, [prest. 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, 

wait [dawn , 

The sober eve, or hail the cheerful 

I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy 

lawn, [thy hapless fate. 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn 



DELIA. 

AN ODE. 

This ode was sent to the Star newspaper with 
the following characteristic letter ;— " Mr. 
Printer,— If the productions of a simple 
ploughman can merit a place in the same 
paper with the other favourites of the 
Muses who illuminate the Star with the 
lustre of genius, your insertion of the en- 
closed trifle will be succeeded by future 
communications from yours, etc., 

'*■ Robert Burns. 

*' Elusland, near Dumfries, May i8, 1789." 

Fair the face of orient day. 
Fair the tints of opening rose; 
But fairer still my Delia dawns. 
More lovely far her beauty blows. 

Sweet the lark's wild- warbled lay. 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; 
But, Delia, more delightful still, 
Steal thine accents on mine ear. 

The flower-enamour'd busy bee. 
The rosy banquet loves to sip; 
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip. 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove! 
Oh, let me steal one liquid kiss! 
J'or, oh! my soul is parch'd with love! 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE. 

WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS 
GRIEVOUSLY TORMENTED BY THAI 
DISORDER. 

My curse upon the venom'd stang. 
That shoots my tortured gums alang; 
And through my lugs gies mony 4 j 
twang, I 

Wi' gnawing vengeance; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang. 

Like racking engines! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease ua^ 

Wi' pitying moan: 
But thee — ^thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our groan! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle! 
I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle. 
As round the fire the giglets keckle,* 

To see me loupi^ 
While raving mad, I wish a heckle* 

Were in their doup. 

Of a' the numerous human dools,^ 
III hairsts, daft bargains, cutty-stools. 
Or worthy friends raked i' the mools,* 

Sad sight to see! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools. 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

\Miere'er that place be priests ca' hell. 
Whence a' the tones o' misery yell. 
And ranked plagues their numbers 
tell. 

In dreadfu' raw, [bell 
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the ij 

Amang them a'! | 

thou grim mischief -making chiel. 
That gars the notes of discord squeel. 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe thick. 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's^ toothache I 



1 The mirthful children laugh. ' Jumpi 
3 Troubles. * Grave— earth. ^ Twelve- 
month's. 

* A frame in which is stuck, sharp ends up- 
permost, from fifty to a hundred steel spikes, 
through which the hemp is drawn to straij^ 
en It for manufacturing purposes. 



POEMS. 



119 



THE KIRK'S ALARM. 

A SATIRE. 

IVe quote Lockhart's account of the origin of 
the "Kirk's Alarm :"—" M'GiU and Dal- 
rymple, the two ministers of the town of Ayr, 
had long been suspected of entertaining 
heterodox opinions on several points, par- 
ticularly the doctrine of original sin and the 
Trinity ; and the former at length published 
'An Essay on the Death cf Jesus Christ,' 
which was considered as demanding the 
notice of the Church courts. More than a 
year was spent in the discussions which 
arose out of this : and at last. Dr. M'GiU was 
fain to acknowledge his errors, and promise 
that he would take an early opportunity of 
apologising for them"* to his congregation 
from the pulpit, which promise, however, 
he never performed. The gentry of the 
country took, for the most part, the side ol 
• M'Gill, who was a man of cold, unpopular 
manners, but of unreproached moral char- 
acter, and possessed of some accomplish- 
ments. The bulk of the lower orders 
espoused, with far more fervid zeal, the 
cause of those who conducted the prosecu- 
tion against this erring doctor. Gavm 
Hamilton, and all persons of his stamp, were, 
of course, on the side of M'Gill— Auld and 
the Mauchhne elders with his enemies. 
Robert Aiken, a writer in Ayr, a man r>i re- 
markable talents, particularly in public 
speaking, had the principal management ot 
M'Gill's cause before the presbytery and the 
, synod. He was an intimate friend of Ham- 
ilton's, and through him had about this time 
formed an acquaintance which soon ripened 
jnto a warm friendship with Burns. Burns 
was, therefore, from the beginning, a zeal- 
i)us, as in the end he was, perhaps, the most 
effective, partisan of the side on which 
Aiken had staked so much of his reputation." 

I Orthodox, orthodox, 

Wha believe.in John Knox, 
bet me sound an alarm to your con- 
science — 
^ There's a heretic blast 

Has been blawn i' the wast, 
Ihat what is not sense must be non- 
sense. 

Doctor Mac,* Doctor Mac, 

You should stretch on a rack 
To strike evil doers wi' terror; 

To join faith and sense. 

Upon ony pretence, 
b heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, 
I* was mad, I declare. 



* Dr. M'GiU. 



To meddle wi' mischief a- brewing ; 

Provost Johnf is still deaf 

To the Church's relief. 
And Orator Bob X is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild,§ D'rymple mild. 

Though your heart 's like a child, 
And your life like the new-drive* 
snaw ; 

Yet that winna save ye, 

Auld Satan must have ye, [twa. 
For preaching that three 's ane and 

Rumble John,]] Rumble John, 
Mount the steps wi' a groan. 

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
Then lug out your ladle. 
Deal brimstone like adle,* 

And roar every note of the damn'd. 

Simper James, 1[ Simper James, 
Leave the fair Killie^ dames. 

There 's a holier chase in your view 
I '11 lay on your head 
That the pack ye '11 soon lead. 

For puppies like you there 's but few. 

Singet Sawney,** Singet^ Sawney, 

Are ye herding the penny. 
Unconscious what evil await ? 

Wi' a jump, yell and howl. 

Alarm every soul, 
For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld,ff Daddy Auld, 

There 's a tod'* in the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk 4:j: 

Though ye downa do skaith,^ 

Ye '11 be in at the death, 
And if ye canna bite, ye can bark. 



1 Putrid water. ' Kilmarnock. 
* Fox. 6 Harm, 



Singed, 



t John Ballantyne, Esq., provost of Ayr, ta 
whom the " Twa Brigs " is dedicated. 

t Mr. Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, to whom 
the "Cotter's Saturday Night ' is inscribed. 
He was agent for Dr. M'GiU in the presbyter/ 
and synod. 

§ The Rev. Dr. William Dalrymple, senio*' 
minister of the collegiate church of Ayr. 

II The Rev. John Russell, celebrated in th« 
" Holy Fair." 

t The Rev. James Mackinlay, the hero o| 
the " Ordination." 

** The Rev Alexander Moodie,of Riccarton, 
one of the heroes of the " Twa Herds." 

tt The Rev. Mi. Auld, of Mauchhne. 

tt The clerk was Mr. Gavin Hamilton, wha 
had been a thorn m the side of Mr. Auld 



m 



BtJRNS' WORKS. 



T)avie Bluster, §§ Davie Bluster, 

For a saunt if ye muster, * 
The corps is no nice of recruits ; 

Yet to wortli let 's be just. 

Royal blood ye miglit boast, 
If the ass were the king of the brutes. 

Jamie Goose, |||| Jamie Goose, 
Ye hae made but toom roose,® 

In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 
But the doctor 's your mark, 
For the Lord's haly ark [in 't. 

He has cooper'd and ca'd' a wrang pin 

Poet Willie.tl Poet Willie, 

Gie the Doctor a volley, [wit; 

Wi' your "Liberty's chain" and your 

O'er Pegasus' side 

Ye ne'er laid a stride, [he . 

Y& but smelt, man, the plac e where 

Andro Gouk,*** Andro Gouk, 
l''e may slander the book, [tell ye; 

And the book nane the waur, let me 
Though ye're rich and look big. 
Yet lay by hat and wig, [value. 

And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' 

Barr Steenie.fff Barr Steenie,^^ 

What mean ye, what mean ye ? 
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 

Ye may hae some pretence 

To havins^ and sense, 
Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine side,t|| Irvine side, 
Wi' your turkey-cock pride, 

Of manhood but sma' is your share; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, 
Even your faes will allow. 

And your friends they daur grant you 
nae mair. 

Muirland Jock,§§§ Muirland Jock, 
When the Lord makes a rock 

* Empty fame. ' Driven. ^ Good manners. 

§§ Mr. Grant, Ochiltree. 

Ill Mr- Young, Cumnock. 

^t The Rev. Dr. Peebles, of Newton-upon- 
Ayr, the author of an indifferent poem on the 
centenary of the revolution, in which occurred 
the line to which the poet alludes. 

*** Dr. Andrew Mitchell, Monkton, a 
«Tealthy member of presbytery. 

t+t Rev. Stephen Young, Barr. 

ttX Rev. Mr. George Smith, Galston. 

|§^ Mr. John Shepherd, Muirkirk. 



To crush Common Se|ise for her sins, 

If ill manners were wit, 

There's no mortal so fit 
To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy WiU, II III) Holy Will, 
There was wit i' your skull 

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor; 
The timmer is- scant, 
When ye're ta'en for a saunt, 

Wha should swing in a rape for si' 
hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons. 
Seize your spiritual guns. 

Ammunition you never can need 
Your hearts are the stuff 
Will be powther enough, 

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Bums, 

Wi' your priest-skelping turns. 

Why desert ye your auld native shire 1 
Your Muse is a gipsy — 
E'en though she were tipsy, 

She could ca' us nae waur than we are. 



THE WHISl 

Burns says : — " As the authentic prose his- 
tory of the ' Whistle ' is curious, I shall 
here give it :— In the train of Anne of Den- 
mark, when she came to Scotland with our 
James the Sixth, there came over also a 
Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and 
great prowess, and a matchless champion of 
Bacchus. He had a little ebony whistle, 
which at the commencement of the orgies 
he laid on the table, and whoever was the 
last able to blow it, everybody else being 
disabled by the potency of the bottle, was 
to carry off the whistle as a trophy of 
victory. The Dane produced credentials of 
his victories, without a single defeat, at the 
courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, 
Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in 
Germany ; and challenged the Scots Bac- 
chanalians to the alternative of trying his 
prowess, or else of acknowledging their in- 
feriority. After many overthrows on the 
part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered 
by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ances- 
tor of the present worthy baronet of that 
name. Who, after three days' and three 
nights* hard contest, left the Scandinavian 
under the table, 

And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill. 

Sir Walter, son of Sir Robert before mea 



mil] William Fisher, elder in Mauchline 
whom Burns so often scourged. 



POEMS. 



m 



tioned, afterwards lost tie whistle to Walter 
Riddel of Glenriddel, who had married a 
sister of Sir Walter's. On Friday, the i6th 
of October, 1789, at Friars' Carse, the whis- 
tle was once more contended for, as related 
in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert 
Lawrie of Maxwelton ; Robert Riddel, Esq., 
of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and repre- 
sentative of Walter Riddel, who won the 
whistle, and in whose family it had contin- 
ued ; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq., of 
Craigdarroch, likewise descended from the 
great Sir Robert, which last gentleman car- 
ried off the hcird-won honours of the 
field." 
,5 good deal of doubt was at one time felt as 
to whether Burns was present at the con- 
test for the whistle— Professor Wilson hav- 
ing contended that he was not present: cit- 
ing as evidence a letter to Captam Riddel, 
which will be found in the General Corre- 
spondence. These doubts are now set at 
rest. Captain Riddel, in replying to the 
letter mentioned, invited the poet to be 
present. He answered as follows :— 

*' The king's poor blackguard slave am I, 
And scarce dow spare a minute ; 
But I'll be with you by-and-by, 
Or else the devil's in it !" — B. 

Mr. Chambers places the matter still further 
beyond doubt oy quoting the testimony of 
William Hunter, then a servant at Friars' 
Carse, who was living in 1851, and who dis- 
tinctly remembered that Burns was there, 
and, what was better &■ ill, that Burns was 
remarkably temperate during the whole 
evening, and took no p^t in the debauch. 

[ SING of a whistle, a ivliistle of worth, 
I sing of a whistlf', the pride of the 
North, [Scottish king, 

Was brought to th« :;ourt of our good 
^d long with this whistle all Scot- 
land sliall ring. 

Old Loda * still rueing the arm of 
Fingal- ^ [ his hall— 

The god of th*» '/ottle sends down from 

" This whistl«^« your challenge — to 
Scotland get o'er, [me more!" 

And drink theiri to hell, sir, or ne'er see 

Old .poets have ^ung, and old chronicles 
tell, [pions fell; 

What champiof "is ventured, what cliam- 

The son of gre it Loda was conqueror 
still, [shrill. 

And blew on t\e whistle his requiem 

Till Robert, tl » lord of the Cairn and 

the Skarr, [in war, 

Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd 



He drank his poor godship as deep aa 

the sea, [he. 

No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than 

Thws Robert, victorious, the trophy 
hasgain'd; [remain'd; 

Which now in his house has for agea 

Till three noble chieftains, and all of 
his blood, 

The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts 
clear of flaw; [and law; 

Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth. 

And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old 
coins: [old wines. 

And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue 
smooth as oil, • [spoil; 

Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the 

Or else he would muster the heads of 
the clan [was the man. 

And once more, in claret, try which 

" By the gods of the ancients!" Glen- 

riddel replies, 
' ' Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie 

Moref [times o'er." 

And bumper his horn with him twenty 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would 
pretend, [ — or his friend. 

But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe 

Said, Toss down the whistle, the prize 
of the field, [he'd yield. 

And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes 
repair, [care; 

So noted for drowning of sorrow and 

But for wine and for welcome not more 
known to fame, [sweet lovely dame. 

Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a 

A bard was selected to witness the 
fray, [day; 

And tell future ages tlie feats of the 

A bard who detested all sadness and 
spleen, [had been. 

And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard! 

The dinner being over, the claret they 

ply; [of joy; 

And every new cork Is a new spring of 



* ^ Qssi^'j Caric-tUur^— 8. 



t See Johosoft 9 Toyr to tb« {iebride*.- 



123 



BURNS' WORKS. 



In the bands of old friendship and kin- 
dred so set, [more they were wet. 
And the bands grew the tighter the 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran 
o'er: [ous a core, 

Bright Phcebus ne'er witness'd so joy- 

And vow'd that to leave them he was 
quite forlorn, [morn. 

Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next 

Six bottle apiece had well wore out the 
night, [fig^it. 

When gallant Sir Robert to finish the 

Tum'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of 
red, [ancestors did. 

And swore 'twas the way that their 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious 
and sage, . [wage: 

No longer the warfare, ungodly, would 

A high ruling-elder to wallow in wine! 

He left the foul business to folks less 
divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to 
the end ; [bumpers contend ? 

But who can with Fate and quart- 

Though Fate said — A hero shall perish 
in light; [fell the knight. 

So up rose bright Phcebus — and down 

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet 
in drink: [tion shall sink ! 

" Craigdarroch, thou 'It soar when crea- 

But if thou wouldst flourish immortal 
in rhyme, [the sublime! 

Come — one bottle more — and have at 

" Thy line, that have struggled for 

freedom with Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce: 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the 

bay; [god of day!" 

The field thou hast won, by yon bright 



VERSES 

ON CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS 
THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTING 
THE ANTIQUITIES OP THAT KING- 
DOM. 

Captain Grose, the hero of this poem, author 
of a work on the Antiquities of Scotland, 
was an enthusiastic antiquary, fond of good 
wine and good company. Burns met him 
iit the bQspitabl? t<^W? of Captaia R4cl4?l oi 



Friars' Carse. He died in DubHn, of an 
apoplectic fit, in 1791, in the 52d year of hi| 
age. 

Hear, Land o* Cakes, and brithei 

Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk* to Johnny Groat's; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 
I rede you tent^ it; 



A chiel's amang you takin' notes, 1 
'T 



And, faith, he'll prent iU 



If in your bounds you chance to light 
Upon a fine, fat, fodgeV^ ^vight, 
0' stature short, but genius bright, 

That's he, mark weel — 
And wow 1 he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel, f 

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin'. :J 

Or kirk deserted by its riggin'. 

It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch^ part, 
Wi' deils, they say. Lord save's I col 
leaguin' 

J At some black art. 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chau 

mer. 
Ye gipsy gang that deal in glamour,* 
And you, deep read in hell's blacl 
grammar. 

Warlocks and witches; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer. 
Ye midnight bitches ! 



It's tauld he was a sodger bred. 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled; 
But now he's quat the spurtle-blade 

And dog-skin wallet. 
And ta'en — the antiquarian trade, 

I thinlc they call it. 



He has a fouth^ o' auld nick-nackets, 
Rusty aim caps and jinglin jackets,>5 
Wad baud the Lothians three in tacketj 

A towmondguid; [et^ 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-back- 

Afore the flood. 



» Heed. ^ Plump. 3 Unholy. < Black art, 
6 Abundance. 

* An inversion of the name of Kirkmaide 
in Wigtonshire, the most southerly parish ii|l 
Scotland. 

t Alluding to his powers as a draughtsman, 

t See his *^ Antiquities of Scotland. '— B. 

§ See his " Treause on Ancient Armour aa^ 
Weapons."— Bt 



POEMS. 



12^ 



Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder; 
Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender, 
That which distinguised the gender 

O' Balaam's i*ss; 
A- broomstick o' the witch o' Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 

Forbye he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg,« 
The cut of Adam's philabeg: 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig' 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail gully. 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he. 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him; 
And port, O port ! shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see him ! 

Now, by the powers o' verse and prose I 
Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose ! — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose. 

They sair misca' thee; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose. 

Wad say. Shame fa' thee! 



LINES WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER, 

ENCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPTAIN 
GROSE. 

Burns having- undertaken to gather some 
antiquarian and legendary material as to the 
ruins in Kyle, in sending them to Captain 
Grose under cover to Mr. Cardonnel, a bro- 
ther antiquary, the following verses, in imi- 
tation of the ancient ballad of '' Sir John 
Malcolm," were enclosed. Cardonnel read 
them everywhere, much to the captain's 
annoyance, and to the amusement of his 
friends. 

B.EN ye ought o' Captain Grose ? 

Igo and ago. 
If he's amang his friends or foes ? 

Irani, coram, dago. 

Is he south, or is he north ? 

Igo and ago, 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highlan' bocliss ? 

Igo and ago, 
And eaten like a wether-haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 



Is he to Abra'm's bosom gane J 

Igo and ago. 
Or haudin' Sarah by the wame? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ! 

Igo and ago, 
As for the deil, he daurna steer him I 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit the enclosed letter^ 

Igo and ago. 
Which will oblige your humble debtor, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye hae auld stanes in store, 

Igo and ago, 
The very stanes that Adam bore, 

Irani, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo and ago. 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 



• FuU quickly. » TUroali 



SKETCH— NEW YEAR'S DAY, 
[1790.] 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

On the original MS. of these lines, the poet 
writes as follows:—" On second thoughts I 
send you this extempore blotted sketch. It 
is just the first random scrawl ; but if you 
think the piece worth while, I shall retouch 
it, and finish it. Though I have no copy of 
it, my memory serves me." 

This day. Time winds the exhausted 

chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again; 
I see the old, bald-pated fellow, 
W^ith ardent eyes, complexion sallow. 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine. 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir 
In vain assail him with their prayer; 
Deaf, as my friend, he sees them press. 
Nor makes the hour one moment less. 
Will you (the Major's* with the 

hounds. 
The happy tenants share his rounds; 
Coila's fair Rachel'sf care to-day. 



* Major, afterwards General, Andrew I)un-= 
lop, Mrs. Dunlop's second son. 

t Miss Rachel Dunlop, who aiterwaxdl 
married Robert Glasgow, Esq. 



124 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And blooraing Keitli's if engaged with 
Gray) [row — 

From housewife cares a minute bor 
That grandchild's cap will do to-mor- 
row — 
And join with me a-moralising, 
This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver? 
*' Another year is gone forever!" 
And what is this day's strong sugges- 
tion? [on!" 
*'The passing moment's all we rest 
Rest on — for what ? what do we here ? 
Or why regard the passing year? [lore? 
Will Time, amused with proverb'd 
Add to our date one minute more ? 
A few days may — a few years must — 
Repose us in the silent dust, 
Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 
Tes — all such reasonings are amiss! 
The voice of Nature loudly cries, 
And many a message from tlie skies, 
That something in us never dies: 
That on this frail, uncertain state. 
Hang matters of eternal weight: 
That future life, in worlds unknown, 
Must take its hue from this alone; 
Whether as heavenly glory bright, 
Or dark as Misery's woful night 

Since, then, my honour'd, first of 

friends, 
On this poor being all depends. 
Let us the important noio employ. 
And live as those who never die. 

Though you, with days and honours 

crown'd, 
Witness that filial circle round, 
(A sight, life's sorrows to repulse, 
A sight, pale Envy to convulse), 
Others now claim youj" chief .regard; 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



PROLOGUE, 

UPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES 

ON NEW year's day EVENING, 

[1790.] 

Burns, writing to his brother Gilbert, says :— 
"We have gotten a set of very decent 
players here just now: I have seen them an 



\ Miss Keith Dunlop, the youngest daughter. 



evening or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, 
wrote to me by the manager of the company, 
a Mr. Sutherland, who is a man of apparent 
worth On New Year's Day I gave him the 
following prologue, which he spouted to his 
audience with applause :" — 

No song nor dance I bring from yon 
great city [more's the pity; 

That queens it o'er our taste — the 
Though, by-the-by, abroad why wil) 
you roam ? [at home. 

Good sense and taste are natives 8J9H 
But not for panegyric I appear, 
I come to wish you all a good newycarf 
Old Father Time deputes me here be 
fore ye, [story. 

Not for to preach, but tell his simple 
The sage grave ancient cough'd, an^ 
bade me say, [day.** 

" You're one year older this important 
If wiser, too — he hinted some sugges- 
tion, [the question; 
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask 
And with a would-be rougish leer and 
wink, [word—' ' Think 1" 
lie bade me on you press this one 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush'd with 

hope and spirit, [of merit. 

Who think to storm the world by dint 
To you the dotard has a deal to say. 
In his sly, dry, sententious, preverb 

way! [less rattle. 

He bids you mind, amid your thought- 
That the first blow is ever half the 

battle; [to snatch him. 

That though some by the skirt may try 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch 

him ; [bearing. 

That whether doing, suffering, or for- 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, though not least in love, ye faith- 
ful fair, [care I 
Angelic forms, high Hea> en's peculiar 
To you old Bald-pate smoothes his 
wrinkled brow, [portant Now f 
And humbly begs you'll mind the im- 
To crown your happiness he asks your 

leave, 
And offers bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, though haply weak, 

endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your 

many favours; 



POEMS. 



isa 



And howsoe'er our tongues may ill re- 
veal it, [it. 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel 



TO THE OWL. 

This poem was originally printed, from a MS. 
j in the poet's handwriting, by Cromek, who 
threw some doubts on its being written by 
Bums. But as the MS. copy showed occa- 
sional interlineations in the same hand, 
there can be little doubt, we presume, as to 
its authenticity. 

Sad bird of niglit, what sorrows call 

thee forth, [night hour ? 

To vent thy plaints thus in the mid- 

Js it some blast that gathers in the 

north, [bower ? 

Threatening to nip the verdure of thy 

Is it, sad owl, that Autumn strips the 
shade, [forlorn ? 

And leaves thee here, unshelter'd and 
Or fear that Winter will thy nest in- 
vade ? [mourn ? 
Or friendless melancholy bids thee 

Shut out, lone bird, from all the 
fcather'd tram, [ing gloom; 

To tell thy sorrows to the unheed- 
No friend to pity when thou dost com- 
plain, [thy home. 
Grief all thy thought, and solitude 

Sing on, sad mourner ! I will bless thy 

strain, [song: 

And pleased in sorrow listen to thy 

Sing on, sad nioufner; to the niglit 

complain, [along. 

While the lone echo wafts thy notes 

Is beauty less, when down the glowing 

cheek [fall ? 

Sad, piteous tears, in native sorrows 

licss kind the heart when anguish bids 

it break? [call ? 

Less happy he who lists to pity's 

^h no, sad owl! nor is thy voice less 
sweet, [is there ; 

That sadness tunes it, and that grief 
!f hat Spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou 
I canst repeat; [repair. 

^ That sorroTT bids thee to the gloom 



Nor that the treble songsters of the day 
Are quite estranged, sad bird of 
night ! from thee; [ing spray. 
Nor that the thrush deserts the even- 
When darkness calls thee from thy 
reverie. 

From some old tower, thy melancholy . 

dome, [solitudes 

While the gray walls, and desert 

Return each note, responsive to the 

gloom [woods. 

Of ivied coverts and surrounding 

There hooting, I will list more pleased 

to thee 

Than ever lover to the nightingale; 

Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with 

misery, [tale. 

Lending his ear to some condoling 



VERSES 

OlSr AN EVENING VIEW OP THE RUINS 
OF LINCLUDEN ABBEY.* 

Ye holy walls, that, still sublime. 
Resist the crumbling touch of time; 
How strongly still your form displays 
The piety of ancient days ! 
As through your ruins hoar and gray- 
Ruins yet beauteous in decay — 
The silvery moonbeams trembling fly; 
The forms of ages long gone by 
Crowd thick on Fancy's wondering eye. 
And wake the soul to musings high. 
Even now, as lost in thought profound, 
I view the solemn scene around. 
And, pensive, gaze with wistful eyes, 
The past returns, the present flies; 
Again the dome, in pri-stine pride. 
Lifts high its roof and arches wide, 
That, knit with curious tracery, 
Each Gothic ornament display. 
The high-arch'd windows, painted fair. 
Show many a saint and martyr there. 
As on their slender forms I gaze, 
Methinks they brighten to a blaze ! 
With noiseless step and taper bright, 
Wliat are yon forms that meet my 
sight ? 

* On the banks of the river Cluden, and at a 
short distance from Dumfries, are the beauti- 
ful ruins of the Abbey of Lincluden, which 
was founded in the time of Malcolm, tbf 
fourth King of Scotland, 



136 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Slowly they move, while every eye 
Is heavenward raised in ecstasy. 
Tis the fair, spotless, vestal train. 
That seek in prayer the midnight fane. 
And, hark ! what more than mortal 

sound 
Of music breathes the pile around ? 
'lis the soft-chanted choral song, 
Whose tones the echoing aisles prolong; 
Till, thence return'd, they softly stray 
O'er Cludin's wave, with fond delay; 
Now on the rising gale swell high, 
And now in fainting murmurs die; 
The boatmen on Nith's gentle stream, 
That glistens in the pale moonbeam, 
Suspend their dashing oars to hear 
The holy anthem loud and clear; 
Each worldly thought a while forbear. 
And mutter forth a half -form'd prayer. 
But as I gaze, the vision fails. 
Like frost work touch'd by southern 

gales; 
The altar sinks, the tapers fade. 
And all the splendid scene's decay'd. 

In window fair the painted pane 
No longer glows with holy stain. 
But through the broken glass the gale 
Blows chilly from the misty vale ; 
The bird of eve flits sullen by, 
Her home these aisles and arches high ! 
The choral hymn, that erst so clear 
Broke softly sweet on Fancy's ear, 
Is drown'd amid the mournful scream 
That breaks the magic of my dream ! 
Roused by the sound, I start and see 
The ruin'd sad reality ! 



PROLOGUE, 

FOR MR. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT 
NIGHT, DUMFRIES. 

This prologue was accompanied with the fol- 
lowing letter to Mr. Sutherland, the man- 
ager of the Dumfries Theatre ;— 

" Monday Morning. 

* I was much disappointed in wanting your 
most agreeable company yesterday. How- 
ever, I heartily pray for good weather next 
Sunday ; and whatever aerial being has the 
guidance of the elements, he may take any 
other half dozen of Sundays he pleases, and 
clothe them with 

Vapours, and clouds, and storms, 

Until he terrify himself 

At combustion of bis own raising. 



I I shall see you on Wednesday lorenoon. I« 
I the greatest hurry.— R. B." 

What needs this din about the town 

o' Lon'ou, [is comin' 1 

How this new play and that new sang 
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle' 

courted ? [imported ? 

Does nonsense mend like whisky, when 
Is there nae poet, burning keen for 

fame, [hame? 

Will try to gie us sangs and plays at 
For comedy abroad he needna toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every 

soil ; [Greece 

Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enow in Caledonian 

story, [glory. 

Would show the tragic muse in a' her 

Is there no daring bard will rise and 
tell [less fell? 

How glorious Wallace stood, liow hap- 
Where are the Muses fled that could 

produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruoe ; 
How here, even here, he first un- 
sheath'd the sword, [lord ; 

'Gainst mighty England and her guilt;^- 
And after mony a bloody, deathless do- 
ing, [j^'WS of ruin? 
Wrench'd his dear country from the 
Oh for a Shakespeare or an Otway 
scene [queen 1 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish 
Vain all the omnipotence of female 
charms [hellion's arms. 
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Re- 
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Ro- 
man, [woman ; 
To glut the vengeance of a rival 
A woman — though the phrase may 

seem uncivil — 
As able and as cruel as the devil ! 

One Douglas lives in Home's immortal 

page, 
But Douglases were heroes eveiy age 
And though your fathers, prodigal of 

life, 
A Douglas followed to the martial strife, 
Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right 

succeeds, [leads ' 

Ye yet may follow where a Douglas 

»Much. 



POEMS. 



12? 



As ye liae generous done, if a' the 

land [hand ; 

Would take the Muses' servants by the 
Not only hear, but patronise, befriend 

them, [commend them; 

And where ye justly can commend, 
And aiblins when they winna stand the 

test, [their best ! 

Wink hard and say the folks hae done 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be 

caution [tion, 

Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish na- 
Will gar Fame blaw until her trumpet 

crack, [back ! 

And warsle^ Time, and lay him on his 
For us and for our stage sliould ony 

spier, 3 [this bustle here ?" 

" Wha's aught thae chiels maks a' 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my 

brow, 
We have the honour to belong to you ! 
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us 

as ye like, [ye strike. 

But like good mithers, shore^ before 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find 

us, [ness 

For a' the patronage and meikle kind- 
We've got frae a' professions, sets and 

ranks; [get but thanks. 

God help us ! we're but poor — ye'se 



STANZAS ON THE DUKE OF 
QUEENSBERRY. 

On being: questioned as to the propriecy of 
satirising- people unworthy of his notice, 
and the Duke of Queensberry being cited as 
an instance, Burns drew out his pencil and 
penned the following bitter lines as his re- 
ply :— 

How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace — 
Discarded remnant of a race 

Once great in martial story ? 
His forbears' virtues all contrasted — 
The very name of Douglas blasted — 

His that inverted glory. 

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore; 
But he has superadded more. 

And sunk them in contempt; 
Follies and crimes have stain'd the 
name; [claim. 

But, Queensberry, thine the virgin 

From aught that's good exempt. 
» — -^___ 



VERSES TO MY BED. 
Thou bed, in which I first began 
To be that various creature — man / 
And when again the fates decree. 
The place where I must cease to be;— 
When sickness comes, to whom I fly. 
To soothe my pain, or close mine eye;— . 
When cares surround me where 1 weep, 
Or lose them all in balmy sleep; — 
When sore with labour whom I court i 
And to thy downy breast resort — 
Where, too, ecstatic joys I find. 
When deigns my Delia to be kind — 
And full of love in all her charms, 
Thou givest the fair one to my arms. 
The centre thou, where grief and pain. 
Disease and rest, alternate reign. 
Oh, since within thy little space 
So many various scenes take place; 
Lessons as useful shalt thou teach. 
As sages dictate — churchmen preach; 
And man convinced by thee alone. 
This great important truth shall own :— 
That thin partitions do divide 
The bounds where good ana ill reside; 
That nought is perfect here below; 
But bliss still bordering upon woe. 



ELEGY ON PEG NICHOLSON. 

Peg Nicholson, the ''good bay mare,'* be- 
longed to Mr, William Nicol, a fast triend 
of the poet's, and was so named from a 
frantic virago who attempted the life of 
George III. The poet enclosed the follow- 
ing verses in a letter to his friend. In 
February, 1790, with a long account of the 
deceased mare, which letter will be found 
in the correspondence of that year. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare 

As ever trode on airn ;' 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

And past the mouth o' Cairn. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And rode through thick and thin; 

But now she's floating down the Nith, 
And wanting even the skin. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 
And ance she bore a priest; 

But now she's floating down the Nith, 
For Solway fish a feast. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And the priest he rode her sair; [was 

And much oppress'd and bruised she 
As priest- rid cattle are. 



^ iron. 



fSS 



BURNS' WORKS. 



LINES 
Vritten to a gentleman who had 
sent him a newspaper, and of- 
fered to continue it free op 

EXPENSE. 

Kind sir, I've read your paper tlirougli, 
And faith, to me 'twas really new ! [ted? 
How guess'd ye, sir, wliat maist I wan- 
^'his mony a day I'vegran'd' andgaun- 

ted-2 [in', 

To ken what French mischief was brew- 
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin' ; 
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor 

Joseph, 
If Venus yet had got his nose off; 
Or how the colliesliangie^ works 
•Atween the Russians and the Turks; 
Or if the Swede, before he halt, 
\yould play anither Charles the Twalt: 
If Denmark, anybody spak o't; 
Or Poland, wha had now the tack"* o't; 
How cut-throat Prussian blades were 

hingin';^ 
Howlibbet^ Italy was sijigin': 
If Spaniards, Portuguese, or Swiss 
Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss: 
Or hiow our merry lads at hame. 
In Britain's court, kept up the game: 
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er 

him ! 
Was managing St Stephens quorum; 
If sleekit' Chatham Will was livin'. 
Or glaikit^ Giarlie got his nieve^ in; 
How Daddie Burke the plea was cook- 
in', [in';'« 
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeuk- 
How cesses, stents, and fees were 

rax'd,'^ 
Or if bare a — s yet were tax'd; 
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls. 
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera 

girls; 
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, 
Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails; 
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,^'^ 
And no a perfect kintra cooser. 
A' this and mair I never heard of ; 
And but for you I might despair'd of. 



So gratef u', back your news I send you. 
And pray, a' guid things may attend 
you ! 

Elusland, Monday Morning^ 1790- 



» Groaned. ^ Yawned. ^ Quarrel. 

• Lease. ^ Hanging. « Castrated. '' Sly. 
8 Thoughtless. » Fist. ^^ Itching. 

»» Str«tcU?d. " At all more sober. 



ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW 
HENDERSON, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PAT 
ENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATE 
LY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD, 

The following note was appended to the 
original MS. of the Elegy :— " Now that you 
are over with the sirens of flattery, the har- 
pies of corruption, and the furies of ambl 
tion— those infernal deities that, on all sides 
and in all parties, preside over the villain- 
ous business of politics — permit a rustic 
muse of your acquaintance to do her best to 
soothe vou with a song. You knew Hender- 
son. I'have not flattered his memory." 

In a letter to Dr. Moore, dated February 1791, 
the poet says :— " The Elegy on Captain 
Henderson is a tribute to the memory of a 
man I loved much. Poets have m this the 
same advantage as Roman Catholics ; they 
can be of service to their friends after they 
have passed that bourne where all other 
kindness ceases to be of any avail. Whether, 
after ail, either the one or the other be of 
any real service to the dead is, I fear, very 

f)roblematical ; but I am sure they are high- 
y gratifying to the living. Captain Hender- 
son was a retired soldier, of agreeable man- 
ners and upright character, who had a lodg- 
ing in Carrubber's Close, Edinburgh, and 
mingled with the best society of the city; 
he dined regularly at Fortune's Tavern, 
and was a member of the Capillaire Club, 
which was composed of all who inclined to 
the witty and the joyous." 

" Should the poor be flattered ?" 

— Shakespeare. 

But now his radiant course is run, 
For Matthew's course was bright ; 

His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless heavenly light ! 

O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloodyj 
The meikle devil wi' a woodie^ * 

Haurl"^ thee hame to his black smiddie,* 

O'er hurcheon' hides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his stud* 
die* 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae ul 

torn ! 
The ae best fellow e'er was born 1 



» Halter. 2 Drag. ^ Hedgehog. < Anvil 
* Smiddie^ a blacksmith's shop— hence tho 
appropriateness of iU> ¥§e in the present in- 
stance, 



POEMS. 



129 



Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall 
mourn 

By wood and wild. 
Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exiled ! 

Ye hills ! near neibors o' the starns,' 
That proudly cock your cresting cair ns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, '^ 

Where Echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers ! 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens !' 
Ye hazelly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin' din,f 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens,^ 

Frae lin to lin ! 

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie 

In scented bowers; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first o' flowers. 

At dawn, when every grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at its head, 
At even, when beans their fragrance 
shed, 

F the rustling gale. 
Ye maukins whiddin'® through the 
glade, 

Come, join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; 
Ye grouse that crap'" the heather bud; 
Ye curlews calling through a clud:*' 

Ye whistling plover; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick'^ 
brood! — 

He's gane forever. 

* Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 
Rair X for his sake. 



• Stars. '' Eagles. '' Wood-pigeon knows. 

* Bounds, • Hares running. i° Crop, eat. 
>i Cloud. 1' Partridge. 

t With the noise of one who goes hesitat- 
ingly or insecurely. 
t We can hardly convey the meaning here ; 
1 pHt we know of no better wor<l. 



Mourn, clam'iing craiks'^ at close o* 

day, 
'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay. 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets,'^ frae your ivy bower. 
In some auld tree or eldiitch'^ tower. 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow 
er,i« 

Sets up her horn. 
Wail through the dreary midnight houl 

Till waukrife^'' morn I 

rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty^^ strains: 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ? 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the 

year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep^' a tear: 
Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head. 
Thy gay, green, flowery tresses shear 

For him that's dead 1 

Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair. 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, Winter, hurling through the air 

The roaring blast. 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost 1 

Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of 

light ! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night 1 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your oA)S he's ta'en hia 
flight . 

Ne'er to return. 

O Henderson ! the man — the brother f 
And art thou gone, and gone forever ? 
And hast thou cross'd that unknown 
river. 

Life's dreary bound ? 
Like thee, where shall I find another 

The world around ! 



i» Landrails, i* Owls. "^ Haunted. -» Stare 
Wakening. ** Happy. ** Cateh. 



130 



BTJHXS' WORKS. 



Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great, 
In a* the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by thy honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 



THE EPITAPH. 

6top, passenger ! — my story's brief. 
And truth I shall relate, man; 

I tell nae common tale o' grief — 
For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 
Yet spurn'd at Fortune's door, man, 

A look of pity hither cast — 
For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art. 

That passest by this grave, man. 

There moulders here a gallant heart — 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways. 
Canst throw uncommon light, man, 

Here lies wha weel had won thy 
praise — 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 
Wad life itself resign, man, 

Tlie sjinpathetic tear maun fa' — 
For Matthew was a kind man ! 

If thou art stanch without a stain. 
Like the unchanging blue, man. 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain — 
For Matthew was a true man. 

tf thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man, 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire — 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingin' sot, 
To blame poor Matthew dare, man. 

May dool and sorrow be his lot ! — 
For Matthew was a rare man. 



TAM O' SHANTER: 

A TALE. 

Captain Grose, in the introduction to his 
•• Antiquities of Scotland, " says, " To my 
ingenious friend, Mr. Robert Burns, I have 
\)xxisx seriously obligated ; be was not only 



at the pains of making out what was most 
worthy of notice in Ayrshire, the country 
honoured by his birth, but he also wrote, 
expressly for this work, the pretty tale 
annexed to Alloway Church." This pretty 
tale was " Tam o' Shanter," certainly the 
most popular of all our poet's works. 

In a letter to Captain Grose, No. CCXXVII. 
of the General Correspondence, Burns gives 
the legend which formed the groundwork 
of the poem :— " On a market dsy in the 
town of Ayr, a farmer from Carr.cl;, jid 
consequently whose way laid by the very 
gate cf Alloway kirkyard, in order to cross 
the river Doon at the old bridge, which is 
about two or three hundred yards farther on 
than the said gate, had been detained by his 
business, till by the time he reached Allo- 
way it was the wizard hour, between ni^ht 
and morning. Though he was terrihed 
with a blaze streaming from the kirk, yet it 
is a well-known fact that to turn back on 
these occasions is running by far the great- 
est risk of mischief,— he prudently advan- 
ced on his road. When he had reached the 
gate of the kirkyard, he was surprised and 
entertained, through the ribs and arches oi 
an old Gothic window, which still faces the 
highway, to see a dance of witches merrily 
footing it round their old sooty blackguard 
master, who was keeping them all alive 
with the power of his bagpipe. The farmer, 
stopping his horse to observe them a little, 
could plainly descry the faces of many old 
women of his acquaintance and neighbour- 
hood. How the g-entleman was dressed tra 
dition does not say, but that the ladies were 
all in their smocks : and one of them happen- 
ing unluckily to have a smock which was 
considerably too short to answer all the 
purpose of that piece of dress, our farmed 
was so tickled that he involuntarily burst 
out, with a loud laugh, ' Weel hippen. 
Maggie wi' the short sark!' and, recollect 
ing himself, instantly spurred his horse to 
the top of his speed. 1 need not mention 
the universally-known fact that no diaboli- 
cal power can pursue you beyond the 
middle of a running stream. Lucky it was 
for the poor farmer that the river Doon was 
so near, for notwithstanding the speed of his 
horse, which was a good one, against he 
reached the middle of the arch of the bridge, 
and consequently the middle of the stream, 
the pursuing, vengeful hags, were so close 
at his heels that one of them actually sprung 
to seize him ; but it was too late, nothing 
was on her side of the stream but the horse's 
tail, which immediately gave way at her in- 
fernal grip, as if blasted by a stroke oi 
lightning ; but the farmer was beyond her 
reach. However, the unsightly, tailless 
condition of the vigorous steed was, to the 
last hour of the noble creature's life, an 
awful warning to the Carrick farmers not to 
stay too late in Ayr markets." 
Douglas Grahame of Shanter, a farmer on the 
Carrick shore, who was in reality the drunk- 
en, careless being the poet depicts him. 
became the hero of the legend, and several 
ludicrous stories current about him were 
woven into it with admirable skill. It is re- 
ported of him that one marl^et day being i» 



PdEM^. 



131 



Ayr he had tied his mare by the bridle to a 
ring at the door of a pubHc house, and while 
he was making himself happy with some 
cronies inside, the idle boys of the neigh- 
bourhood pulled all the hair out of the 
mare's tail. This was not noticed until the 
following morning, when, becoming bewil- 
dered as to the cause of the accident, he 
could only refer it to the agency of witch- 
craft. It is further related of Grahame that 
when a debauch had been prolonged until 
the dread of the " sulky sullen dame " at 
home rose up before him, he would frequent- 
ly continue drinking rather than face her, 
even although delay A'ould add to the 
terrors of the inevitable home-going. 
The ooem was composed in one day in the 
winter of 1790. Mrs. Burns informed Cro- 
mek that the poet had lingered longer by the 
river side than his wont, and that taking 
the children with her, she went out to join 
him, but perceiving that her presence \yas 
an interruption to him, she lingered behind 
him: her attention was attracted by his 
wild gesticulations and ungovernable mirth, 
while he was reciting the passages of the 
poem as the}' arose in his mmd. 

" Of brownyis and of bogilisfull is this buke." 
— Gawin Douglas. 

When cliapman billies' leave the 

street, 
Aiid droutliv^ neibors neibors meet, 
As market days are wearin' late, 
And folk begin to tak tlie gate;^ 
While we sit bousing at the nappy/ 
And gettin' fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,^ 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame. 
Gathering her brows like gathering 

storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town sur- 



For honest men and bonny lasses.) 

Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou wast a skel 
lum,« [blellum;^ 

A blethering, blustering, drunken 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market day thou wasna sober; 



1 Fellowb. 2 Thirsty. 3 Road. * Ale. 
' Breaches in hedges or walls. « A worthless 
5ellow. ' A talker of nonsense, a boaster, 
jmd a drunken fool. 



That ilka melder,* wi' the miller 
Thou sat as lang as thou hadst siller;^ 
That every naig^ was ca'd a shoe on. 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; 
That at the Lord's house, even on Sun- 
day, [Monday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirktonf Jean till 
She prophesied that, late or soon. 
Thou wouldst be found deep drown'd 

in Doon ! 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks i' the mirk/*' 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars" me greet 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen' d sage advices. 
The husband frae the wife despises I 

But to our tale : — Ae market night, 
Tam had got planted unco^'^ right. 
Fast by an ingle, '^ bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats,'"* that drank di- 
vinely; 
And at his elbow Souter Jdhnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy'^ cronj; 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither — 
They had been fou for weeks thegitherl 
The night they drave on wi' sangs and 

clatter. 
And aye the ale was growing better: 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and pre- 
cious; 
The Souter tauld his queerest stories. 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: 
The storm without might rair'® and 

rustle — 
Tam didna mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en drown'd himsel araang the nappy! 
As bees flee hame wi' lades''' o' treasure. 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' 
pleasure: [glorious, 

Kings may be blest, but Tam was 
O'er a* the ills o' life victorious ! 



8 Money. » Horse. " Dark. " Makes. 
>2 Unusually. i3 Fire. ^* Foaming ale. 
15 Thirsty. " Roar. 1^ Loads.. 

* Any quantity of com sent to the mill is 
called a melder. 

t The village where a parish church is situa- 
ted is usually called the Kirkton (Kirk-towiv"' 
in Scotland. A certain Jean Kennedy, who 
kept a reputable public house in the village <» 
Kirkoswald, is here aUuded to. 



in 



BURNS' WORKS. 



But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flower, its bloom is slied! 
Or like the snowfall in the river, 
A moment white — then melts forever^ 
Or lilce the borealis race, 
That flit ere you can point their place; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form. 
Evanishing amid the storm. 
Nae man can tether'^ time or tide; 
The hour approaches Tam maun ride. 
That hour, o' night's black arch the 
keystane, [in; 

That dreary hour he mounts his beast 
And sic'^ a night he taks the road in 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 't wad blawn its last ; 
The rattling showers rose on the blast, 
The speedy gleams the darkness swal- 
low'd; [low'd 

Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bel 
That night, a child might understand 
The deil had business on his hand. 

Wee! mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, [mire, 

Tam skelpit'-° on through dub and 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bon- 
net. 
Whiles crooning-^ o'er some auld Scots 
sonnet; [cares, 

Whiles glowering^- round wi' prudent 
Lest bogles'^ catch him unawares. 
Kirk Alio way was drawing nigh, [cry. 
WTiare ghaists and houlets'-"* nightly 

By this time he was 'cross the foord, 
Whare in the snaw the chaj^man 

smoor'd;'-^ 
And past the birks and meikle stane 
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck- 
bane: [oairn^^ 
And through the whins, and by the 
Whare hunters^ fand the murder'd 

bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mungo's mither liang'd hersel. 
Before him Doon pours a' his floods; 
The doubling stonn roars through the 

woods; 
The lightnings flash frae pole to pole; 

" Tie up. J9 Such, ^o Rode with careless 
speed. 21 Humming. 22 Stariner. 23 Spirits. 
»* Ghosts and owls. ^^ Pedlar was smothered. 
*• Stone-heap. 



Near and more near the thunders roll 

When, glimmering through the groan- 
ing trees, 

Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; 

Through ilka bore-^'' the beams were 
glancing, [ing. 

And loud resounded mirth and danc- 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst mak us scoraf 
Wi' tippenny,^** we fear nae evil; 
Wi' usquebae,^^ we'll face the devil !— 
The swat sae ream'd in Tammie's nod- 

dle,3o 
Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle.^* 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd. 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd. 
She ventured forward on the light, 
And, wow ! Tam saw an unco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance; 
Nae cotillon brent-new^- frae France; 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and 

reels, 
Put life and mettle i' their heels : 
At winnock- bunker, 22 i' the east. 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; 
A towzie tyke,^^ black, grim, and 

large. 
To gie them music was his charge.' 
He screw'd the pipes, and gart-'^ them 

skirl.^e 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.^^ 
Cofiins stood round, like open presses. 
That sliaw'd tlie dead in their last 

dresses , 
And by some devilish cantrip'^ slight 
Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
By which heroic Tam was able. 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet airns;^' 
Twa span lang, wee,"*^ unchristen'd 

bairns; 
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape^ 
Wi' his last gasp his gab'*' did gape; 
Five tomahawks wi' bluid red-rusted^ 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled. 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft. 



2'' Every hole in the wall, ^s Twopenny ale 
«» Whisky. 30 The ale so wrought in Tam- 
mie's head, ^i a small coin. ^2 Brand-new [ 
33 A kind of window seat. 34 a roujjh dog. 
35 Made. 36 Scream. '"> Vibrate. 38 SpeB. 
8» Irons. 40 Small. *^ Mouth. 



POEMS. 



138! 



Tbe gray hairs yet stack to the heft:'*^ 

Wi' Hiair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which even to name wad be unlawfu'. 

/Ls Tammie glower'd/^ amazed and 
curious, [ous: 

The mirth and fun grew fast and furi- 
The piper loud and louder blew, 
The dancers quick and quicker tiew; 
They reel'd, vney set, they cross'd, 

they cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,"^ 
And coost-^^ her duddies^^ to the wark, 
And linkef^^ at it in her sark.'*'^ 

How Tarn ! O Tam ! had thae been 

queans,"*^ 
A' plump and strappin' in their teens, 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie ilan- 

nen,^.o [linen ! § 

Been snaw-white seventeen - liunder 
Thir breeks^^ o' mine, my only pair. 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue 

hair, 
I wad hae gien them aff my hurdles, ^^ 
For ae blink^^ o' the bonny' burdies !^* 

But wither'd beldams, auld, and droll, 
Rigwoodie^^ hags, wad spean^"^ a foal, 
Ijowpin' and fiingin' on a cummock," 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kenn'd^^ what was what fu' 

brawlie,s9 [walie,"6«|| 

* ' There was ae winsome wench and 



■•a Handle. " Stared. « Till each old 
beldam smoked with sweat. *^ Stript- ''^ 
.Clothes. 47 Tripped. *^ Shirt. *^ Young 
'eirls. 60 Greasy flannel, si These breeches. 
" Hams. *3 Look. S"* Lasses. ^^ Gallows- 
worthy. 66Wean. ^^Jumping and capering 
on a staff. ^8 Knew. »» Full well. «» A 
hearty girl and jolly. 

t The following four lines were, in the 
original MS., in this place :— 

Three lawyers' tongues turn'd inside out, 
Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout :' 
And priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck, 
Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk,* 

The poet omitted them at the suggestion of 
Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee. 

» Rags. 3 Corner. 

I The manufacturers' term for a fine linen 
Woven in a reed of 1700 divisions.— Cromek. 
^ I Allan RcLAsay. 



That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore; 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd mony a bonny boat. 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear. 
And kept the country side in fear.) 
Her cutty sark," o' Paisley ham. 
That, while a lassie,*"^ she had worn. 
In longitude though sorely scanty. 
It was her best, and she was vauntie.* 

Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she coft"^ for her wee Nan- 
nie, [riches,) 
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her 
Wad ever graced a dance o' witches ! 

But here my Muse her wing maun 

cour,^* 
Sic flights are far beyond her power; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,*® 
(A souple jade^^ she was and Strang,*') 
And how Tam stood, like ane be- 

witch'd. 
And thought his very een enrich'd; 
Even Satan glower'd, and fidged fu' 

fain, [and main: 

And liotched'd^^ and blew wi' might 
Till first ae caper, syne""^ anither, 
Tam tint'' his reason a' thegither. 
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty 

sark !" 
And in an instant a' was dark: 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 
As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,'''^ 
When plundering herds assail their 

byke," 
As open pussie's mortal foes, [nose; 
When, pop ! she starts before their 
As eager runs the market-crowd. 
When " Catch the thief!" resounds 

aloud; 
So MafTgie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' nnmy an eldritch''-* screecii and 

hollow. 

Ah, Tam ! ah, Tam ! thou'lt get thy 

f airin' 1''^ 
In hell they'll roast thee like aherrin'l 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' ! 

«i Short shirt. «2 Girl. «3 Proud of it. «* 
Pought. ^^ Lower. ®* Jumped and kicked. 
«' Girl. «8 Strong. «» Hitched. ^0 Then. 
^» Lost. »» Fuss. " Hive. '* Unearthljt 
" Deserts. 



m 



BUltNS' WORKS. 



Kate soon will be a wofu' woman! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the keystane^ of the brig; 
There at them tliou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they darena cross; 
But ere the keystane she could make 
The fient''* a tail she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the I'est, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle;'' 
But little wist"^ she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought ofE her master hale. 
But left behind her ain gra> tail; 
The carlin claught her by the rump. 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk^^ man and mother's ^on, take heed: 
Whane'er to drink you are inclined. 
Or Cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think ! ye may buy the joys owre 

dear — 
Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. 



ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHU- 
MOUS CHILD, 

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF 
FAMILY DISTRESS. 

The mother of the child was Miss Susan Dun- 
lop, daughter of Burns' friend, Mrs. Dunlop. 
She had married a French gentleman of 
birth and fortune, named Henri, who died 
prematurely. Some time afterwards, Mrs. 
Henri went to the south of France, where 
she died, leaving her child exposed to all 
the dangers of the revolutionary excesses. 
He was carefully tended by an old domestic 
of the family's, and restored to his friends 
when the tranquillity of the country was 
secured. 

Sweet floweret, pledge o' meiklelove, 
And ward o' mony a prayer; [move. 

What heart o' stane would thou na 
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 

November hirples' o'er the lea. 
Chill on thy lovely form; 

'• Ne'er. " Design. '8 Knew. " Each. 
' Moves slowly. 

•f It is a well-known fact that witches, or 
any evil spirits, have no power to follow a 
poor wight any farther than the middle of the 
next running stream. It may be proper like- 
wise to mention to the benighted traveller 
that, when he falls in with bogles^ whatever 
danger may be in his going forward, there is 
much more hazard ia turning back. — B. 



And gane, alas ! the sheltering tree 
Siiould shield thee from the storm 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 
And wings the blast to blaw. 

Protect the frae the driving shower. 
The bitter frost and snaw ! 

May He, the friend of woe and want. 
Who heals life's various stounds,* 

Protect and guard the mother-plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds 1 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast. 
Fair on the summer's morn: 

Now feebly bends she in the blast, 
Unshelter'd and forlorn. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem. 
Unscathed by ruflian hand ! 

And from thee many a parent stem 
Arise to deck our land ! 



ELEGY ON MISS BURNET OF 
MONBODDO. 

Miss Burnet was the daughter of the accom- 
plished and eccentric Lord Monboddo. She 
is alluded to in the "Address to Edin- 
burgh," (p. lOI.) 

Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye. 
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine 7 

I see the Sire of Love on high, 
And own His work indeed divine. 

She was one of the most beautiful women 
of her time, and died of consumption in the 
twenty-third year of her age. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 

As Burnet, lovely from her native \ 

skies ; [blow, I 

Nor envious Death so triumph'd in a I 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd 

Burnet low. } 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can ( 

forget ? 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest 

shown, [best is known. 

As by His noblest work the Godhead 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride , ye 

groves; [flowery shore, 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy 

Ye woodland choir that chant your idlei 

loves. 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more' 

4 

* Pangs, 



POEMS. 



13* 



Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy 

fens; [rushes stored , 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and 

Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary 

To you i fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumbrous pride was all 

their worth, [hail ? 

Shall venal lays their pompous exit 

And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake 

our earth, [wail ? 

And not a Muse in honest grief be- 

We saw thee shine in youth and beau • 

ty's pride, [yond the spheres; 

And virtue's light, that beams be- 

But. like the sun eclipsed at morning 

tide, [of tears 

Thou left'st us darkling in a world 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in 

thee, [and care 

That heart how sunk, a prey to grief 

So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged 

tree; [and bare. 

So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF 

SCOTS. ON THE APPROACH OF 

SPRING. 

This poem is said to have been written at the 
instigation of Lady Winifred Maxwell Con- 
stable, daughter of William Maxwell, Earl 
of NithsdaTe. who rewarded him with a 
present of a valuable snuff-box, having a 
portrait of Queen Mary on the lid. In a let- 
ter to Graham of Fintry, enclosing a copy of 
" The Lament," the poet says :— " Whether 
it is that the story of our Mary Queen of 
Scots has a peculiar effect on the feelings of 
a poet, or whether I have, in the enclosed 
ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic 
success, 1 know not, but it has pleased me 
beyond any effort of my Muse for a good 
while past. 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea: 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal 
streams. 

And glads the azure skies; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

It'ow lav iuotcfcj wake the merry morn, 
Aloft on dew^ wing; 



The merle, in his noontide bower. 
Makes woodland echoes ring; 

The mavis wild, wi' mony a note/ 
Sings drowsy day to rest; 

In love and freedom thev reioicft. 
Wi' care or thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen. 

And milk-white is the slae; 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang; 
But, I, the queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang I 

I was the queen o' bonny France, 

Where happy I hae been; 
Fu' lightly ris» I in the morn. 

As blithe lay down at e'en; 
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands. 

And never-ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman f— 

My sister and my fae. 
Grim Vengeance yet shall whet a sword 

That through thy soul shall gae ! 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee; [woe 

Nor the balm that draps on wounds of 

Frae woman's pitying ee. 

My son ! my 3on ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ! 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign. 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes. 

Or turn their hearts to thee : [friend. 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's 

Remember him for me ! 

Oh ! soon to me may summer suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair to me the autumn winds 

Wave o er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave; [spring 
And the next flowers that deck the 

Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 



LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OP 
GLENCAIP^-^. 

The early death of the Earl of Glencairn 
robbed the poet •£ *in intelligent friend ^^ 



tsa 



BURNS' WORKS. 



pairon. Burns enclosed the *' Lament in a 
letter to Lady Elizabeth Cunningham, the 
sister of the earl, from which we quote the 
following :— " My heart glows, and shall 
ever glow, with the most grateful sense and 
remembrance of his lordship's goodness. 
The sables ! Jid c_,self the h'..iour to wear 
to his lordship's memory were not the 
'mockery of woe.' Nor shall my gratitude 

rirish with me ! If, among my children, 
shall have a son that has a heart, he shall 
hand it down to his child as a family hon- 
our, and a family debt, that my dearest ex- 
istence 1 owe to the noble house of Glen- 



Thb wind blew hollow frae tlie hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That waved o'er Lugar's winding 
stream 
Beneath a craig>' steep/»a bard, 

Laden with years and meikle pain, 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was mouldering down 

with years; [time, 

His locks were bleached white with 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears; 
And as he touched his trembling harp, 

And as he tuned his doleful sang, 
The winds lamenting through their 
caves, 

To Echo bore the notes alang: — 

'* Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay. 

Again ye'll charm the ear and ee; 
But nocht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

" I am a bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and 
rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast. 

And my last hold of earth is gane: 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; 
But I maun lie before the storm. 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

*' I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 
On earth ^ °rn « str^no-pr grown; 

1 wander in the ways of men. 
Alike unkuowing; aad unknowo; 



Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, 
I bear alane my lade o' care. 

For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

" And last (the sum of a' my griefs I) 

My noble master lies in clay; 
The flower amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride — his countrjr'a 
stay ! 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead. 
And hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing forever fled. 

" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp 1 

The voice of woe and wild despair; 
Awake ! resound thy latest lay — 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my hist, best, only friend, 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from Fortune's mirk* 
est gloom. 

" In Poverty's low barren vale 

Thick mists, obscure, involved me 
round: 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye; 

Nae ray of fame was to be found ; 
Thou found'st me, like the morning 
sun. 

That melts the fogs in limpid air^ 
The friendless bard and rustic song 

Became alike thy -fostering care. 

"Oh! why has worth so short a 
date. 

While villains ripen gray with timet 
Must thou, the noble, generous, 
great. 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime! 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of woe! — 
Oh! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

"The bridegroom may forget tb« 
bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreeni 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her kneej 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that tliQU Imt 4Qfte for mev 



POEMS. 



131 



LINES 

I 8ENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, 
BART., OF WHITEFOORD, WITH THE 
FOREGOING POEM. 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God re- 
verest, [earthly fear'st, 

Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought 
To thee this votive-ofEering 1 impart, 
The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 
The friend thou valued'st, I the patron 
loved; [approved. 

His worthy his honour, all the world 
We'll mourn till we too go as he has 

gone. 

And tread the dreary path to that dark 
world unknown. 



A1>DRESS TO THE SHADE OF 
THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, 
ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. 

Th«! Earl of Buchan invited the poet to be 
present at the coronation of Thomson's 
bust, on Ednara Hill. He eould not attend, 
but sent the following " Address " in- 
stead :— 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 
Unfolds her tender mantle green, 

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood. 
Or tunes JEolian strains between: 

VVliile Summer with a matron grace. 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

STet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

Wliile Autumn, benefactor kind, 
By Tweed erects his aged head, 

And sees, with self -approving mind, 
Each creature on his bounty fed: 

iVhile maniac Winter rages o'er 
The hills whence classic Yarrow 
flows, 

tlousing the turbid torrent's roar. 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows: 

3o long, sweet poet of the year ! 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well 
hast won- 
SVTiile Scotia, with exulting tear, 

proclaims that Thomson was her son! 



VERSES 

TO JOHN MAXWELL OF TERRAUQHTT, 
ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 

Health to the Maxwells' veteran chief I 
Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief: 
Inspired, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf 

This natal mom; 
I see thy life is stufiE o' prief,^ 

Scarce quite half worn. 

This day thou metes threescore eleven. 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka2 poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

If envious buckles^ view wi' sorrow 
The lengthen'd days on this blest mor- 
row. 
May Desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow. 

Nine miles an hour. 
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brunstane stoure !* 

But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith honest men and lasses bonny. 
May couthie* Fortune, kind and canny, 
In social glee, [ny, 

Wi' mornings blithe and e'enings fun- 
Bless them and thee ! 

Fareweel, auld birkie !® Lord be near 

And then the deil he daurna steer ye: 
Your friends aye love, your faes aye 
fear ye; 

For me, shame fa' me, 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye. 

While Burns they ca' me! 



THE VOWELS: 

A TALE. 

'TwAS where the birch and sounding 

thong are plied, 
The noisy domicile of pedant pride; 
Where Ignorance her darkening vapour 

throws, [blows; 

And Cruelty directs the thickening 
Upon a time, Sir Abece the great. 
In all his pedagogic powers elate, 

» Proof. 3 Every, a Bucks. « Dust. * Lo*. 
ing. » A lively fellow. _ « 



m 



BTONS' WOHKS. 



His awful chair of state resolves to 

mount, [count. 

And call tlie trembling Vowels to ac- 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn 
■..ncrht. [sight ! 

uut, an ! deform'd, dishonest to the 
His twisted head look'd backward on 
his way, [grunted ai ! 

And flagrant from the scourge he 
Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous 
race [face ! 

The jostling tears ran down his honest 
That name, that well- worn name, and 
all his own, [throne ! 

Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman 
sound [compound; 

Not all his mongrel diphthongs can 
And next the title following close be- 
hind, > [sign'd. 
He to the nameless ghastly wretch as- 

The cobweb'd Gothic dome resounded 

Y! 
In sullen vengeance, I disdain'd reply: 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel 

round, [the ground ! 

And knocked the groaning vowel to 

In rueful apprehension enter'd 0, 
The wailing minstrel of despairing 

woe; [pert, 

The inquisitor of Spain the most ex- 
Might there have learnt new mysteries 

of his art: [ing, U 

So grim, deform'd, with horrors enter- 
II is dearest friend and brother scarcely 

knew 1 

As trembling U stood staring all 
aghast, [him fast. 

The pedant in his left hand clutch'd 

in helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his 
right, [his sight. 

Baptized him eu, and kick'd him from 



ADAM A 'S PRAYER. 

The circumstances under which the following 
lines were written were as fo/lows :— The 
servant of a Mauchline innkeeper having 
been too indulgent to one ot her master's 
customers, a number of reckless young fel- 
lows, among whom was Adam A , an 

ill-made little fellow, miade her "ride the 
^ ...,^ " that is, placed her astride a wood- 
en pole, and earned her through the streets. 



3 



An action being raised against the offend 
ers, AdamA absconded. While skulk- 
ing about, Burns met him and suggested 
that he needed some one to pray for him . 
"Just do't yoursel, Burns; 1 know no one 

so fit," Adam replied. Adam A 's Prayer 

was the result. 

GuDE pity me, because I'm little, 
For though I am an elf o' mettle, 
And can. like ony wabster's' shuttle, 

Jink'^ there or here; [tl©- ' 
Yet, scarce as lang's a guid kail whit» 

I'm unco queer. 

And now thou kens our woefu' case. 
For Geordie's jurr* we're in disgrace. 
Because we've stang'd her through the 
place, 

And hurt her spleuchan. 
For which we daurna show our face 

Within the clachan.* 

And now we're dern'd" in glens and 

hollows, 
And hunted, as was William Wallace, 
Wi' constables, those blackguard fal- 
lows, 

And sodgers baith; 
But Gude preserve us frae the gallows^ 
That shamefu' death ! 

Auld, grim, black-bearded Geordie's 

sel, 
Oh, shake him o'er the mouth o' hell. 
There let him hing, and roar, and yell, 

Wi' hideous din. 
And if he offers to rebel. 

Just heave^ him in. 

When "Death comes in, wi' glimmering 
blink, [wink. 

And tips auld drunken Nanse f th>* 
May Hornie gie her doup a clink 

Ahint his yett,' 
And fill her up wi' brimstone drink. 

Red, reeking, het. 

There's Jockie and the haverll Jenny^ 
Some devils seize them in a hurry, 



1 Weaver's. ^ Dodge. 3 Knife. ■» Village 
6 Hidden. « Pitch. ' Gate. 

* " Jurr" is in the west of Scotland a collo« 
quial term for "journeyman," and is oftcf 
applied to designate a servant of either sex. 

+ Geordie's w _ 

i Geordie's son and daughLct. 



POEMS. 



139 



And waff them in the infernal wherry 
Straught through the lake, 

And gie their hides a noble cui ry, 
Wi' oil of aik. 

As for the jurr, poor wortlilcss body, 
She's got mischief enough already ; 
Wi' stanged hips, and buttocks bluidy, 

She 's suffer'd sair ; 
But may she win tie in a woodie,^ 

If she whore mair. 



VERSES TO JOHN RANKINE.* 

Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl, 
Was driving to the titlier warl' 
A mixtie-maxtie, motley squad, 
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; 
Black gowns of each denomination. 
And thieves of every rank and station, 
From him that wears the star and gar- 
ter, 
To him that wintles^ in a halter. 
Ashamed himsel to see the wretches, 
He mutters, glowerin'^ at the bitches, 
'• By God, I '11 not be seen beliint them. 
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present 

them. 
Without, at least, ae honest man. 
To grace this daran'd infernal clan." 
By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
••Lord God !" quoth he, "I have it 

now ; 
There 's just the man I want, i faith !" 
And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath. 



ON SENSIBILITY. 

TO MY DEAR AND MUCH-HONOURED 
FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP OF DUNLOP. 

Sensibility, how cliarming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; 

But distress, with horrors arming. 
Thou hast also known too well ! 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 
Blooming in the sunny ray : 

Let tlie blast sweep o'er the valley, 
See it prostrate on the clay. 

^ Struggle in a halter. 

* Struggles. '•^Starinpr. 

* John Rankine oi Adamhul, tue • rough, 
fhde, ready-witted Rankine" of the Epistle. 



Hear the woodlark charm the forest. 
Telling o'er his little joys ; 

Hapless bird ! a prey the surest. 
To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure 
Finer feelings can bestow ; 

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure 
Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



LINES ON FERGUSSON. 

The following lines were inscribed by Bumi 
on a blank leaf of a copy of the periodical 
publication entitled the IVorld^ from which 
they have been copied : — 

III - FATED genius ! Heaven - taught 
Fergusson ! [yield a tear. 

What heart that feels and will not 
To think life's sun did set ere well be 
gun [career. 

To shed its influence on thy bright 
Oh, why should truest worth and ge- 
nius pine [Woe, 
Beneath the iron grasp of Want and 
While titled knaves and idiot great- 
ness shine [stow I 
In all the splendour Fortune can be- 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN, 

AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN BY 
MISS FONTENELLE ON ;iER BEN- 
EFIT NIGHT. 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty 
things, [kings ; 

The fate of empires and the fall of 
While quacks of state must each pro- 
duce his plan, [man; j 
And even children lisp the rights of 
Amid this mighty fuss, just let me 
mention, , [tention. 
The rights of woman merit some at- 

First, in the sexes' intermix'd con- 
nexion, [tection. 
One sacred right of woman is, pro- 
The tender flower that lifts its head, 
elate, [fate. 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of 
Sunk on the earth, defaced its lovely 
form, [storm. 
Unless your shelter ward th" impending 



140 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Our second right — but needless here is 

caution, [ion ; 

To keep that right inviolate 's the fash- 
Each man of sense has it so full before 

him. [corum. 

He 'd die beioi*e lie 'd wrong it — 'tis de- 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd 

days, [naughty ways ; 

A time, when rough, rude man, had 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, 

kick up a riot. 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet ! 
Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic 

times are fled ; [well bred ! — 

Now, well-bred men — and ye are all 
Most justly think (and we are much 

the gainers) [manners. 

Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor 

For right the third, our last, our best, 
our dearest, [the nearest. 

That right to fluttering female hearts 
Which even the rights of kings in low 
prostration [miration ! 

Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear ad- 
In that blest sphere alone we live and 
move ; [love ; 

There taste that life of life — immortal 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flir- 
tations, airs, [dares — 
'Gainst such a host what flinty savage 
When awful Beauty joins with all her 

charms, 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms? 

But truce with kings, and truce with 
constitutions, [tions ! 

With bloody armaments and revolu- 

Let majesty your first attention sum- 
mon, 

Ah! fa ira! the majesty of woman! 



ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE 
CHILD. 

The following lines were composed on the 
death of a daughter, which took place sud- 
denly while the poet was absent from 
home : — 

Oh, sweet be thy sleep in the land of 
the grave, 

Mw A — '-^1^ angel forever; [slave. 
For ever — on iio ! let not man be a 

His hopes from existence to sever. 



Though cold be the clay where thof 
pillow'st thy head, 
In the dark silent mansions of sorrow. 
The spring shall return to thy low nar- 
row bed, [row. 
Like the beam of the daystar to-mor- 

The flower-stem shall bloom like thy 

sweet seraph form, [som; 

Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blos- 

When thou shrunk from the scowl ol 

the loud winter storm. 

And nestled thee close to that bosom. 

Oh, still I behold thee, all lovely in 

death. 

Reclined on the lap of thy mother. 

When the tear trickled bright, when 

the short stifled breath, [other. 

Told how dear ye were aye to each 

My child, thou art gone to the home of 

thy rest, [ye, 

Wliere suffering no longer can harm 

Where the songs of the good, where 

the hymns of the blest. 

Through an endless existence shall 

charm thee. 

Wliile he, thy fond parent, must sigh- 
ing sojourn 
Through the dire desert regions oi 
sorrow. 
O'er the hope and misfortune of being 
to mourn. 
And sigh for his life's latest morrow. 



41 



TO A KISS. 

Humid seal of soft affections, 
Tenderest pledge of future bliss, 

Dearest tie of young connexions. 
Love's first snowdrop, virgin kiss I 

Speaking silence, dumb confession. 
Passion's birth, and infant's play. 

Dove-like fondness, chaste concession, 
Glowing dawn of brighter day, 

Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action, 
When lingering lips no more must 
join, 

What words can ever speak affection 
So thrilling and sincere as thine I 



POEMS. 



141 



SONNET. 

OK HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A 
MORNING WALK; WRITTEN JAN. 25, 
1793, THE BIRTHDAY OP THE AU- 
THOR. 

Sing on, sweet tlirusli, upon the leaf- 
less bough, [strain: 
Sing on, sweet bird. I listen to thy 
See, aged Winter, 'mid his surly 
reign, [brow. 
At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd 
So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, 
Sits meek Content with light unanx- 
ious heart, [them part, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids 
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope oi- 
fear. 

1 thank Thee, Author of this opening 

day ! [orient skies ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon 

Riches denied. Thy boon was purer 

joys, [away ! 

What wealth could never give nor take 

Yet come, thou child of Poverty and 

Care; 
The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that 

mite with thee I'll share. 



IMPROMPTU ON MRS. RIDDEI/S 
BIRTHDAY. 

NOVEMBER 4, 1793. 

Old Winter with his frosty beard 
Thus once to Jove his prayer pref err'd — 
*• What have I done, of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know; 
Night's horrid car drags dreary, slow; 
My dismal months no joys are crown - 
ing, * [ing. 

But spleeny English, hanging, drown- 

' ' Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil. 
To counterbalance all this evil; 
Give me, and I've no more to say. 
Give me, Maria's natal-day ! 
That brilliant gift shall so enrich me. 
Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot 
match me." [sto'-" 

"'Tis done!" says Jove; so ends my 
^d Winter once rejoiced in glory. 



EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO 

MARIA. 

The Esopus of this epistle was Williamson, tha 
actor ; and the Maria to whom it is address- 
pri WHS Mrs. Riddel— "A lady," says Allan 
v^ui...ingi.^in, " whose memory will be held 
in grateful remembrance, not only for het 
having forgiven the poet for his lampoons, 
but for her having written a sensible, clec"-^ 
heart-warm account of him when laid in ii.e 
grave. Mrs. Riddle was a sincere frierd 
and admirer of Barns, who quarrelled wi.a 
her on account of some fancied slighr. 
Williamson was a member of 'the dramatic 
company which frequently visited Dumfries. 
He had been a frequent visitor at Mrs. 
Riddel's. While the dramatic company 
were at Whitehaven, the Earl of Lonsdale 
committed them to prison as vagrants. 
Burns had no favour for the Earl of Lons- 
dale, and managed in the epistle to gratify 
his aversion to him, asv/ellas his temporary 
anger with Mrs Riddel. His behaviour 
towards the latter was as discreditable to 
him as Mrs- Riddel's generosity in forgiving 
it was wortliy of her goodness and her high 
opinion of his better nature." 

From those drear solitudes and frowsy 
cells, [dwells; 

Where infamy with sad repentance 
Where turnkeys make the jealous mor- 
tal fast, [past; 
And deal from iron hands the spare re- 
Where truant 'prentices, yet young in 
sin, [in: 
Blush at the curious stranger peeping 
Where strumpets, relics of the drunken 
roar, [no more; 
Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore. 
Where tiny thieves, not destined yet to 
swing, [string: 
Beat hemp for others riper for the 
From these dire scenes my wretched 

lines I date. 
To tell Maria her Esopus' fate. 

" Alas ! I feel I am no actor here ! '* 
'Tis real hangmen real scourges beai ! 
Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale 
Will turn thy very rouge to deadly 

pale; [gipsy poU'd, 

Will make thy hair, though erst from 
By barber woven, and by barber sold, 
Though twisted smooth with Harry'J 

nicest care. 
Like hoary bristles to erect and stare 
The hero of the mirilic scene, no mora 
I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar; 
^: !-j"gl:"'^ chieftain, 'mid the din of 

arms, " [charms.' 

In Highland bonnet woo Malvina'i 



149 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Whilst sans-culottes stoop up the 

mountain high, 
And steal from me Maria's prying eye. 
Blest Highland bonnet ! once my 

proudest dress. [press. 

Now prouder still, Maria's temples 
I see her wave thy towering plumes 

afar, [war; 

And call each coxcomb to the wordy 
I see her face the first of Ireland's 

sons, [bronze; 

And even out-Irish his Hibernian 
The crafty colonel leaves the tartan'd 

lines, [shines; 

For other wars, where he a hero 
The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate 

bred, [the head; 

Who owns a Bushby's heart without 
Cbmes, 'mid a string of coxcombs to 

display 
That mni, mdi, 'vici, is his way ; 
The shrinking bard adown an alley 

skulks, [Woolwich hulks: 

And dreads a meeting worse than 
Though there, his heresies in church 

and state [mer's fate; 

Might well award him Muir and Pal- 
Still she undaunted reels and rattles on, 
And dares the public like a noontide 

sun. [stagger 

(What scandal call'd Maria's janty 
The ricket reeling of a crooked swag- 
ger; [venom when 
Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns' 
He dips in gall unmix'd his eager 

pen, — [ing line, 

And pours his vengeance in the burn- 
Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre 

divine; 
The idiot strum of vanity bemused. 
And even the abuse of poesy abused; 
Who call'd her verse a parish work- 
house, made [or stray'd ?) 
For motley, foundling fancies, stolen 

A workhouse ! ha, that sound awakes 

my woes, [pose ! 

And pillows on the thorn my rack'd re- 
in durance vile here must I wake and 

weep, [steep ! 

And all my frowsy couch in sorrow 
That straw where many a rogue has 

lain of yore, 
And vermin'd gipsies littered hereto- 

fore. 



Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on va 

grants pour, [dure! 

Must earth no rascal save thyself en- 
Must thou alone in guilt immortal 

swpll 
Ana make a, vast monopoly of hell ? 
Thou know'st the virtues cannot hate 

thee worse; [curse? 

The vices also, must they club their 
Or must no tiny sin to others fall, . 

Because thy guilt's supreme enough^ 

for all ? 

Maria, send me to thy griefs and 

cares; 
In all of these sure thy Esopus shares. 
As thou at all mankind the flag un- 
furls, [hurls? 
Who on my fair one satire's vengeance 
Who calls thee pert, affected, vain co- 
quette, 
A wit in folly, and a fool in wit ? 
Who says that fool alone is not thy due. 
And quotes thy treacheries to prove it 

true? 
Our force united on thy foes we'll turn, 
And dare the war with all of woman 
born; [and I? 

For who can write and speak as thou 
My periods that deciphering defy, 
And thy still matchless tongue that 
conquers all reply. 



MONODY ON A LADY FAMED FOK 
HER CAPRICE.* 

How cold is that bosom which folly 
once fired, 
How pale is that cheek where the 
rogue lately glisten 'd ! 
How silent that tongue which the 
echoes oft tired, 
How dull is that ear which to flat 
tery so listen'd ! 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, 
From friendship and dearest affec- 
tion removed; 
How doubly severe, Eliza, thy fate. 
Thou diedst unwept as thou livedst 
unloved. 



*'iais vwOb jinother of the poet's splenef 
attficJits on Mrs. Riddel. 



I>OEM^. 



14)1 



Loves Graces, and Virtues, I call not 

on you; " [not a tear 

So shj, grave, and distant, ye slied 

But come all ye offspring of Folly so 

true, IS^^^ ^^^^* 

And flowers let us cull tor Eliza's 

We'll searcK through the garden for 

each silly flower, 

We'll roam through the forest for 

each idle weed; 

But chiefly the nettle, so typical, 

shower, [rued the rash deed. 

For none e'er approach'd her but 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll 

measure the lay; 

Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; 

There keen Indignation shall dart on 

her prey, [deem from his ire. 

Which spurning Contempt shall re- 



POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. 

EIail, Poesie ! thou nymph reserved ! 
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae 

swerved 
Frae common sense, or sunk ennerved 

'Mang heaps o' clavers;' 
And och ! owre aft thy joes'^ hae 
starved 

'Mid a' thy favours ! 

Say, lassie, why thy train amang. 
While loud the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd sang 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; 
Rsohylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin,^ till him rives'^ 

Horatian fame; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 
* Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's 

catches: 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin^ 
patches 

O' heathen tatters: 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches. 
That ape their betters. 



» Nonsense. » Lovers. 3 Dwarfish. 

'Draws. * Thin or gauzy. 



In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its n? ^ive air 

And rural grace; 
And wi' the far-famed Grecian share 

A rival place ? 

Yes ! there is ane; a Scottish callan — 
There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan !- 
Thou need na jouk® behint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever; 
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan, 

But thou's for ever ! 

Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 
in thy sweet Caledonian lines; [twines, 
Nae gowden stream through myrtles 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines. 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays. 
Where bonny lasses bleach their claes; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray. 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's 
lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel; 

Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell; , 

Nae snap conceits — but that sweet spell 

O' witchin' love; 
That charm that can the strongest quell. 

The sternest move. 



SONNET 

ON THE DEATH O^ ROBERT RIDDEL, 
ESQ., OF GLEN RIDDEL. f 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no 
more ! [my soul: 

Nor pour your descant, grating, on 
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy 
verdant stole — 
More welcome were to me grim Win- 
ter's wildest roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all 
your dyes ? [friend ! 

Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my 
How can I to the tuneful strain at- 
tend? 

6 Hide. 

* Allan Ramsay. 

t Robert Riddel, Esq., of Friars' Carse, a 
very worthy gentleman, and one from whoa| 
Bums had received maay obligatioas. 



144 



BURNS' WORKS. 



That strain flows round the untimely 
tomb where Riddel lies ! 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes 

of woe ! [his bier: 

And soothe the Virtues weeping o'er 

The Man of Worth, who has not left 

his peer, [low. 

Is in his narrow house, for ever darkly 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall 

others greet, [meet. 

Me, memory of my loss will only 



LIBERTY : 

A FRAGMENT. 

Writing to Mrs. Dunlop from Castle-Douglas, 
the poet says :— " I am just going to trouble 
your critical patience with the first sketch 
of a stanza I have been framing as I passed 
along the road. The subject is Liberty: 
you know, my honoured friend, how dear 
the theme is to me. I design it as an irreg- 
ular ode for General Washington's birth- 
day. After having mentioned the degener- 
acy of other kingdoms, I come to Scotland 
thus :" — 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths 
among, [sacred song, 

Thee, famed for martial deed and 
To thee I turn with s^vimming eyes; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead, 
Beneath the hallow'd turf where 
Wallace lies ! 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of 
death ! 
Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep; 
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath. 
Is this the power in freedom's war 
That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal 
hate. 
Braved usurpation's boldest daring ! 
That arm which, nerved with thunder- 
ing fate, [ing : 
Crush'd the despotfs proudest bear- 
One quench'd in darkness, like the 
sinking ptar, [powerless age. 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, 



His royal visage seam'd with manv a 

scar, [form. 

That Caledonian rear'd his martial 



Who led the tyrant-quelling wary 
Where Bannocldbum's ensanguined 

flood / 

Swell'd with mingling hostile/blood, 
Soon Edward's myriads st^ck with 

deep dismay, [their way. 

And Scotia's troop of brc/thers win 
(Oh, glorious deed to bay a tyrant's 

band ! [land ! 

Oh, heavenly joy to free our native 
While high their mighty chief pour'd 

on the doubling storm. 



VERSES 

TO MISS GRAHAM OF FINTRT, WITH A 
PRESENT OF SONGS. 

Here, where the Scottish Muse im- 
mortal lives, [bers join'd, 
In sacred strains and tuneful num- 
Accept the gift, though humble he who 
gives ; [mind. 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful 

So may no ruflBan feeling in thy breast 
Discordant jar thy bosom - chords 



among 



[rest. 



But Peace attune thy gentle soul to 
Or Love, ecstatic, wake his seraph 
song ! 

Or Pity's notes, in luxury of tears. 
As modest Want the tale of woe re- 
veals ; [endears, 

While conscious Virtue all the strain 
And heaven-born Piety her sanction 



THE TREE OF LIBERTY. 

This poem was taken from a MS. in the poet's 
handwriting in the possession of Mr. James 
Duncan, Mosesfield, near Glasgow, and 
was first printed in Mr. Robert Chamber? 
edition of the poet's works, 1838. 

Heard ye o' the tree o' France, 

I watna' what's the name o't; 
Around it a' the patriots dance, 

Weel Europe kens the fame o't. 
It stands where ance the Bastile stood, 

A prison built by kings, man. 
When Superstition's hellish brood 

Kept France in leading-strings, maa 

. — .^ -• 

* Know aot« 



POEMS. 



145 



Upo' tliis tree there grows sic fruit, 

Its virtues a' can tell, man; 
It raises man aboon tlie brute. 

It makes him ken himsel, man. 
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit, 

He's greater than a lord, man, 
And wi' the beggar shares a mite 

Of a' he can afford, man. 

This fruit is worth a' Af ric's wealth. 

To comfort us 'twas sent, man: 
To gie the sweetest blush o' health. 

And mak us a' content, man. 
It clears the een, it cheers the heart, 

Maks high and low guid friens, man, 
And he wlia acts the traitor's part 

It to perdition sends, man. 

My blessings aye attend the chieP 

Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man. 
And staw^ a branch, spite o' the deil, 

Frae yont* the western waves, man. 
Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care. 

And now she sees wi' pride, man, 
How weel it buds and blossoms there. 

Its branches spreading wide, man. 

But vicious folk aye hate to see 

The works o' Virtue thrive, man; 
The courtly vermin's bann'd the tree. 

And grat^ to see it thrive, man; 
King Louis thought to cut it down. 

When it was unco^ sma', man; 
For this the watchman cracked his 
crown, 

Cut aff his head and a', man. 

A wicked crew syne,"* on a time, 

Did tak a solemn aith, man. 
It ne'er should flourish to its prime, 

I wat^ they pledged their faith, man. 
Awa' they gaed,^ wi' mock parade. 

Like beagles hunting game, man. 
But soon grew weary o' the trade. 

And wish'd they'd been at liame, 
man. 

For Freedom, standing by the tree. 
Her sons did loudly ca', man; 

She sang a sang o' liberty. 

Which pleased them ane and a', man. 

By her inspired, the new-born race 
Soon drew the avenging steel, man; 

\'Man. 3 Stole. < prom beyond. * Wept. 
Very. » Then. » Know. » Went. 



The hirelings ran — her foes gied"* 
chase. 
And bang'd" the despot weel, man. 

Let Britain boast her hardy oak, 

Her poplar and her pine, man, 
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke, 

And o'er her neighbours shine, man. 
But seek the forest round and round, 

And soon 'twill be agreed, man. 
That sic a tree cannot be found 

'Twixt London and the Tweed, man. 

Without this tree, alake, this life 

Is but a vale o' woe, man; 
A scene o' sorrow mix'd wi' strife, 

Nae real joys we know, man. 
We labour soon, we labour late. 

To feed the titled knave, man; 
And a' the comfort we're to get 

Is that ayont the grave, man. 

Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow. 

The warld would live in peace, man; 
The sword would help to mak a plough. 

The din o' war wad cease, man. 
Like brethren in a common cause, 

We'd on each other smile, man; 
And equal rights and equal laws 

Wad gladden every isle, man. 

Wae worth the loon^=^ wha wadna eat 

Sic halesome dainty cheer, man; 
I'd gie my shoon frae aff my feet. 

To taste sic fruit, I s wear, man. 
Syne let us pray, auld England may 

Sure plant this far-famed tree, man; 
And blithe we'll sing, and hail the day 

That gives us liberty, man. 



TO CHLORIS. 

The Chloris of the following lines, and of sev- 
eral songs of the poet's, was a Mrs. Whelp- 
dale, the beautiful daughter of Mr. William 
Lorimer, farmer of Kemmis Hall, near Ellis- 
land. Her marriage was unfortunate, for a 
few months after it took place she was sep- 
arated from her husband, whom she did not 
again meet for twenty-three years. 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, 
fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse. 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralising Muse. 

»» Gave. " Beat. " Fellow. 



146 



BURNS* WORKS. 






Since thou, in all thy youth and 
charms, 

Must bid the world adieu 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly few. 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 
Chill came the tempest's lower; 

(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 
Did nip a fairer flower.) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no 
more, 

Still much is left behind; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store — 

The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self- approving glow. 
On conscious honour's part: 

And, dearest gift of Heaven below, 
Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refined of sense and taste. 

With every Muse to rove: 
And doubly were the poet blest. 

These joys could he improve. 



VERSES 

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS 

NEAR DRUMLANRIG. 

The Duke of Queensberry, who was no fav- 
ourite of the poet's, and who was deserved- 
ly held in Httle esteem wherever his charac- 
ter was known, had (we quote from Mr. 
Chambers) " stripped his domains of Drum- 
lanrig m Dumfriesshire, and Neidpath m 
Peeblesshire, of all the wood fit for being 
cut, in order to enrich the Countess of Yar- 
mouth, whom he supposed to be his daugh- 
I ter, and to whom, by a singular piece of 
good fortune on her part, Mr. George Sel- 
wyn, the celebrated wit, also left a fortune, 
under the same, and probably equally mis- 
taken, impression." 

As on the banks o' wandering Nith 

Ae smiling summer morn I stray'd, 
And traced its bonny howes and haughs, 

Where linties sang and lambkins 
play'd, 
I sat me down upon a craig, 

And drank my fill o' fancy's dream. 
When, from the eddying deep below, 

Uprose the genius of the stream. 

Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow, 
And troubled like his wintry wave, 



And deep, as sughs^ the boding /<vind 

Amaughis eaves, the sighh/gave— . 
"And came ye here, my 5on," ha 
cried, 
' • To wander in my birkezi shade ? 
To muse some favourite Scoftish theme. 
Or sing some favourite Scottish 
maid ! 

' • There was a time, it 's nae lang syne,' 

Ye might hae seen me in my pride. 
When a' my banks sae bravely saw 

Their woody pictures in my tide ; 
When hanging beech and spreading 
elm 

Shaded my stream sae clear and cool; 
And stately oaks their twisted arms 

Threw broad and dark across th« 
pool : 

" When glinting through the trees ap- 
pear'd 

The wee white cot aboon the mill, 
And peacefu' rose its ingle reek,^ 

That slowly curl'd up the hill. 
But now the cot is bare and cauld. 

Its branchy shelter 's lost and gane, 
And scarce a stinted birk is left 

To shiver in the blast its lane.," 

** Alas !" said I, " what ruefu' chance 

Has twin'd^ ye o' your stately trees ! 
Has laid your rocky bosom bare ? 

Has stripp'd the deeding^ o' your 
braes ! 
Was it the bitter eastern blast. 

That scatters blight in early sprmg? 
Or was 't the wil-fire scorch'd iheit 
boughs, 

Or canker-worm wi' secret sting T 

" Nae eastlin blast," the sprite replied; 

" It blew na here sae fierce and fell; 
And on my dry and halesome banks 

Nae canker • worms get leave to 
dwell : 
Man ! cruel man !" the genius sigh'd-^ 

As through the cliffs he sank him 

down — [trees, 

" The worm that gnaw'd my bonny 

That reptile wears a ducal crown 1" 



1 Sighs. 8 Since. » The smoke of its fins 
* Reft. 6 Clothing* 



POEMS. 



147 



ADDRESS 

8P0KEK BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER 
BENEFIT NIGHT. 

**We have had a brilHant theatre here this 
season," the poet writes to Mrs. Dunlop ; 
" only, as all other business does, it experi- 
ences a stagnation of trade from the epidem- 
ical complamt of the country — zvantof cash. 
I mention our theatre merely to lug in an 
occasional address which I wrote for the 
benefit night of one of the actresses." 

Still anxious to secure your partial 

favour, [than ever, 

And not less anxious, sure, this night 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such 

matter, [ing better; 

'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if noth- 
So sought a poet, roosted near the skies, 
Told him I came to feast my curious 

eyes; [printed; 

Said nothing like his works was ever 
And last, my Prologue-business slily 

hinted. [man of rhymes, 

*' Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my 
" I know your bent — these are no 

laughing times: 
Can you— but. Miss, I own I have my 

fears — 
Dissolve in pause and sentimental tears ; 
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded 

sentence , [ Repentance ; 

Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell 
Paint Vengeance, as he takes his horrid 

stand. 
Waving on high the desolating brand. 
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a 

guilty land?" 

I could no more — askance the creature 
eyeing, . [for crying ? 

D'ye think, said I, this face was made 

I'll laugh, that's poz — nay, more, the 
world shall know it: [Poet ! 

And so, your servant ! gloomy Master 

Firm as my creed, sirs, 'tis my fix'd be- 
lief. 

That Misery's aaother word for- Grief; 

I also think — so may I be a bride ! 

That so much laughter, so much life 
enjoy'd. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless 

sigh, [eye; 

Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting 

Poom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 



To make three guineas do the work of 

five: [lam witch I 

Laugh in Misfortune's face — the bed- 
Say you'll be merry, though you can't 

be rich. [love, 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast 

strove; [ject, 

Who, as the boughs all temptingly pro- 
Measured in desperate thought — a 

rope — thy neck — [the deep, 

Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap: 
Wouldst thou be cured, thou silly, 

moping elf, [thyself: 

Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at 
Learn to despise those frowns now so 

terrific, [specific. 

And love a kinder — ^that's your grand 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise; 
And as we're merry, may we still be 
wise ! 



TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL. 

The poet died within a few months of writing 
this. But Collector Mitchell, who was a 
sincere friend to him, was not aware of 
his distress at this time. 

Friend of the poet, tried and leal, 
Wlia, wanting thee, might beg or steal; 
Alake ! alake ! the meikle deil 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it skelpin'^ jig and reel. 

In my poor pouches I 

I modestly f u' fain wad hint it. 
That one pound one I sairly want it; 
If wi' the hizzie"^ down ye sent it. 

It would be kind; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood 
dunted,3 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang^ out moan- 
ing 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
W^i' double plenty o'er the loaning^ 

To thee and thine; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 



1 Dancing. 2 Qirl. 3 Throbbed. •* Go* 
I 5 The road leading to the farm. 



148 



BURNS' V/ORKS. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been 

licket.fi 
And by fell Death was nearly nicket;' 
Grim loun ! he gat me by the fecket,^ 

And sair me sheuk; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share 
o 't, [o 't, 

And by that life I'm promised mair 
My hale and weel I'll tak a care o 't, 

A tentier^ way; 
Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o' t, 

For ance and aye ! 



TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER* 
My honour' d colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the poet's weel. 
Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel* 

The steep Parnassus. 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill 

And potion glasses. 

Oh, what a canty ^ warld were it. 
Would pain, and care, and sickness 

spare it; 
And fortune favour worth and merit 

As they deserve ! 
And aye a rowth^, roast beef and 
claret; 

Syne"* wha wad starve ? 

Dame Life, though fiction out may 
trick her, [lier; 

And in paste gems and frippery deck 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker^ 

I've found her still. 
Aye wavering, like the willow wicker,® 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole,auld Satan, 
Watches, like baudrons' by a ratton. 
Our sinf u' saul toget a claut** on 

Wi' felon ire; 
Syne whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast 

saut' on — 
.^ He's aff like fire . 

« Beaten. » Cut off. 8 Waistcoat. » More 
careful. 

» Climb, a Happy, a Abundance. * Then. 
• Insecure. « Twig. ' Cat. 8 Claw. » Salt. 

* Arentz de Peyster, colonel of the Gentle- 
men Volunteers of Dumfries, of which Burns 
v/as a member. He had made some kind in- 
quiries as to the poet's health. 



Ah, Nick ! ah, Nick ! it is naelair. 
First showing us the tempting* ware. 
Bright wines and bonny lasses rare. 

To put us daft;'« 
Syne weave, unseen, the spider snare 

O' hell's damn'd waft. 

Poor man, the flee aft bizzes by, 

And aft as chance he conies thee nigh, 

Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks" wi' 

joy. 

And hellish pleasure; 
Already in thy fancy's eye. 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon, heels-o'er-gowdie V'^ in he gangs. 
And, like a sheep -head on a tangs, 
Thy girning'3 laugh enjoys his panga 

And murdering wrestle. 
As, dangling in the wind, he hangB 

A gibbet's tassel. 

But lest you think I am uncivil. 

To plague you with this draunting'* 

drivel. 
Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen: 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil fe 

Amen ! Amen ! 



TO MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUM- 
FRIES, 

WITH A PRESENT OP BOOKS. 

Cunningham says :— " Miss Jessy Lewars 
watched over the poet and his little house- 
hold dunng his declining days with all the 
affectionate reverence of a daughter. For 
this she has received the silent thanks of 
all who admire the genius of Burns, or look 
with sorrow on his setting sun • she has re- 
ceived more— the undying thanks of the poet 
himself ; his songs to her honour, and his 
simple gifts of books and verse, will keep 
her name and fame" long in the world." 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy, fair, 
And with them take the poet's prayer- 
That Fate may in her fairest page, 
With every kiiidliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name; 
With native worth, and spotless fanM 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare. 
All blameless joys on earth we flnd. 
And all the treasures of the mind— 
These be thy guardian and reward; 
So prays thy faithful friend — the Bart 



»» Mad. >» Itches. " Topsy-turvey. " 
ning. 1* Drawling. 



EPISTLES. 



EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE 

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 

O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine, 
The wale^ o' cocks for fun and drinkin' ! 
There's mony godly folks are thinkin' 

Your dreams* and tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin', 

iStrauglit to auld Nick's. 

Ye hae sae mony cracks and cants, ^ 
And in your wicked, drucken rants,^ 
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, 

And fill them fou;'*f 
And then their failings, flaws, and 
wants, 

Are a' seen through. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 

That holy robe, oh, dinna tear it ! [it, 

Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear 

The lads in black ! 
But your curst wit, when it comes 
near it, 

Rives't' aff their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, whaye'reskaith- 

ing,® [claithing:}: 

It's just the blue-gown badge and 



^ Choice. 2 Stories and tricks. 3 Bouts. 
* Tipsy. * Pulls it. ^ Injuring. 

* A certain humorous dream of his was then 
making a noise in the country-side.— B. 

+ A minister or elder, some say Holy Willie, 
had called on Rankine, and had partaken so 
freely of whisky-toddy as to have ended by 
tumbling dead-drunk on the floor. 

t " The allusion here is to a privileged class 
of mendicants well known in Scotland by the 
Oame ot ' Blue Gowns.' The order was insti- 
Uited by James V. of Scotland, the royal 
' Gaberlunzie-Man.' " 



0' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them nae» 
thing 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or I. 

I've sent you here some rhyming war^ 
A' that I bargain'd for, and mair; 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang,§ ye'll sen't wi' cannie care. 

And no neglect. 

Though, faith, sma' heart hae I to 
sing ! [wing 1 

My muse dow'' scarcely spread hei 
I've play'd mysel a bonny spring, 
And danced my fill ! 
I'd better gaen and sair'f* the king. 
At Bunker's Hill. 

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, 

I gaed a roving wi' the gun. 

And brought a paitrick'* to the grun ». 

A bonny hen, 
And, as the twilight was begun, 

Thought nane wad ken.** 

The poor wee thing was little hurt; 
I straikit^i it a wee for sport, [for't; 
Ne'er thinking they wad fash'''^ me 

But, di el -ma-care ! 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The ]ii'le alTair. 

Some auld-used hands had ta'en a note^ 
That sic a hen had got a shot, 



■'Dare ^ Served. » Partridge. l<> KaOVH 
I Stroked. 12 Trouble. 

§ A song he had promised the ac.thor.'-B. , 



150 



BURNS' WORKS. 



I was suspected for tlie plot; 

I scorn'd to lie; 
So gat the whistle o' my groat. 

And pay't the fee. 

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
And by my pouther and my hail. 
And by my hen, and by her tail, 

I vow and swear ! 
'rhe game shall pay o'er moor and dale, 

For this, neist year. 

As soon's the clocking-time is by, 
And the wee pouts begun to cry, 
Lord, I'se hae sportin' by and by. 

For my gowd guinea. 
Though I should herd the buckskin 
kye 

For't in Virginia. 

Trouth, they had muckle for to blame! 
*Twas neither broken wing nor limb. 
But twa-three draps about the wame 

Scarce through the feathers . 
And baith a yellow George to claim 
And thole their blethers I^^ 

It pits me aye as mad's a hare; 
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; 
But pennyworths again is fair, 

When time's expedient: 
Meanwhile I am, respected sir. 

Your most obedient. 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET. 

January^ 1785. 
David Sillar, to whom this epistle was 
addressed, was a native of Torbolton, a poet 
and scholar. He was for many years a 
schoolmaster at Irvine, and was latterly a 
magistrate of that town. He published a 
volume of poems in the Scottish dialect. 

While winds frae aff Ben Lomond 

blaw. 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw. 

And hing^ us owre the ingle, ^ 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

In liamely westlin jingle.^ 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug.^ 

13 Nonsense. 
» Hang. 2 Fire. a Homely 

•rest country dialect. * Chimney corner. 



I grudge a wee the great folk's gift. 
That live sae bien" and snug: 
I tent* less, and want less 

Their roomy fire-side; 
But hanker and canker 
To see their cursed pride. 

It's hardly in a body's power 
To keep at times frae being sour. 

To see how things are shared; j 

How best o' chiels'' are whiles in want ' 
While coofs^ on countless thousand* 
rant,9 
And ken na how to wair't;^" 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash" your head, 

Though we hae little gear,^-^ 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lang's we're hale and fier:^^ 
"Mair spier na, nor feer na,"'* 
Auld age ne'er mind a f eg, '* 
The last o't, the warst o't. 
Is only but to beg. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, [thin. 
When banes are crazed, and bluid '\% 

Is doubtless great distress ! 
Yet then content could make us blest; 
Even then, sometimes, we'd snatch a 
taste 
Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart, that's free frae a* 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However Fortune kick the ba'. 
Has aye some cause to smile: 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma'; 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa.' 

"WTiat though like commoners of air. 
We wander out we know not where. 

But either house or hall ! [woods. 

Yet nature's charms — the hills and 

The sweeping vales, and foaming 

floods — 

Are free alike to all. 

In days when daisies deck the ground. 

And blackbirds whistle clear. 
With honest joy our hearts will bound 
To see the coming year: 
On braes, when we please then. 
We'll sit and sowth'^ a tune: 



5 Comfortable. « Heed. "> Men. « Yoo\%. 
» Live extravagantly. " Soend it. "Trouble, 
i'^ Goods or wealth. '^ Whole and sound. 

"More ask not, nor fear not. ^^Fig. "Whistl*. 



EPISTLES. 



151 



Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, 
And sing't when we hae dune. 

It's no in titles nor in rank: 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank 

To purchase peace and rest: 
It's no in making muckle mair;^'' 
It's no in books, it's no in lear;'^ 

To make us truly blest; 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast. 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest. 
Nae treasures, nor pleasures. 
Could make us happy lang: 
The heart aye's the part aye 
That makes us right or wrang 

Think ye that sic" as you and I, [dry, 
Wha drudge and drive through wet and 

Wi' never-ceasing toil; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they 
Wha scarcely tent^" us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ? 
Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 
God's creatures they oppress ! 
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid. 
They riot in excess ! 
Baith careless and fearless 
Of either heaven or hell ! 
Esteeming and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I here wha sit hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth; 

They let us ken oursel; 
^They make us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 
Though losses and crosses 
Be lessons right severe. 
There's wit there, ye'U get there, 
Yell find nae other where. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! [tes, 
(To say aught less wad wrang the car- 

And flattery I detest,) 
This life has joys for you and I; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy. 

Aud joys the very best. 

V Much more. " Learning. " Such. 20 Heed. 



There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 

The lover and the frien'; 
Ye hae your Meg,* your dearest part. 
And 1 my darling Jean ! 

It warms me, if charms me. 
To mention but her name: 
It heats me, it beets me. 
And sets me a' on tlame I 

Oh, all ye powers who rule above I 
O Thou, whose very self art love I 

Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming through mj 

heart. 
Or my more dear immortal part. 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart- corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of i ost. 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, all-seeing. 

Oh, hear my fervent prayer 1 
Still take her and make her 
Thy most peculiar care 1 

All hail ! ye tender feelings dear I 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The s3Tnpathetic glow ! 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days. 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend. 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene. 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean ! 

Oh, how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin','^' rank and 

Amaist'^- before I ken ! ^^ [file. 

The ready measure rins as fine 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowerin' owre my pen. 
My spaviet'^^ Pegasus will limp. 

Till ance he's fairly het; [jimp,''* 
And then he'll hilch,"^ and stilt, ^^ and 

And rin an unco fit. 



21 Dancingr. 22 Almost. ^^ Know. '* Spa- 
vined. 25 Hobble. 26 Halt. sTjump 

* Sillar's flame was a lass of the name of 
Margaret Orr, who had charge of the children 
of Mrs. Stewart of Stair. It was not the foT'* 
J^jg^^ of " Meg " to become Mrs. SiUar. 



X52 



BTJHNS' WORKS. 



I 



But lest then, the beast then, 
Should rue^^ this hasty ride, 

I'll light now, and dight^^ now 
His sweaty, wizen'd^'' hide. 



EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 

April 1, 1785. 

While briers and woodbines budding 

green, 
And paitricks' scraichin'^ loud at e'en. 
And morning poussie^ whiddin seen. 

Inspire my Muse, 
This freedom in an unknown f rien' 

I pray excuse. 

On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin',* 

To ca' the crack^ and weave our 

stockin'; 
And there was muckle^ fun and jokin', 

Ye needna doubt; 
At length we had a hearty yokin'^ 

At sang about. 

Tliere was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleased me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife: 
It thirl'd the heart-strings through the 
breast, 

A' to the life.f 

I've scarce heard ought described sae 

weel. 
What generous manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, "Can this be Pope, or 
Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark ? " 
They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chieP 
About Muirkirk. 

It pat me fidgin-fain^ to hear't, 
And sae about him there I spiert;' 



•-'*' Repent. «» Wipe, so Withered. 

* Partridges. ' Screaming. ^ I'he hare, 

* To drive the talk. » Much. « Bout. '' Man. 

• Made me fidget with desire. " Inquired. 

♦ In former times young women were wont 
to meet together, each having her distaff or 
rock for the purpose of spinning while the 
song and the gossip went round. 

t This song is entitled, " When I upon thy 
bosom leao.*''^ 



Then a' that kent^" him round declare! 

He had ingine;^^ 
That nane excell'd it, few cam near't. 

It was sae fine. 

That, set him to a pint of ale. 

And either douce'^ or merry tale, 

Or rhymes and sangs he'd made himselj 

Or witty catches- 
'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, and swore an aith,'^ 
Though I should pawn my pleugh an! 

graith^* 
Or die a cadger pownie's death. 

At some dike back, 
A pint and gill I'd gie them baith 
To hear you crack. 

But, first and foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle'^ fell, 

Though rude and rough: 
Yet crooning'^ to a body's sel 

Does weel enough. 

I am nae poet, in a sense, 

But just a rhymer, like by chance, 

And hae to learning nae pretence. 

Yet what the matter ? 
Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic folk my cock their nose, 
And say, "How can you e'er propose. 
You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose. 

To mak a sang ? " 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're maybe wrang. 

Wliat's a' your jargon o' your schools. 
Your Latin names for horns and stools; 
If honest nature made you fvols, 

What sairs jour grammars? 
Ye'd better ta'en up spades and 
shools, 

Or knappin' -hammers. 

A set o' dull, conceited hashes," 
Coufuse their brains in college classes! 
They gang in stirks,'^ and come oul 



Plain truth to speak; 

10 Knew. >' Genius or geniality. " Sober. 
»» Oath. »* Tackle. " Doggerel versea. 
16 Humming. " Blockheads. "Year-old cattle* 



EPISTLES. 



153 



And syne'* thej think to climb Par- 
nassus 

By dint o' Greek ! 

Gie mc ae spark o' Nature's fire ! 
That's a' the learning I desire; 
Then, though I drudge through dub 
and mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My Muse, though hamely in attire. 

May touch the heart. 

Oh for a spunk o' Allan' s^o glee, 

Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee,^' 

Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be. 

If I can hit it ! 
That would be lear^^ enough for me. 

If I c^ld get it ! 

Now, sir, if ye liae friends enow, 
Though real friends I b'lieve are few, 
Yet, if your catalogue be fu', 

I'se no insist, 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

I winna'^ blaw about mysel; 

As ill I like my faults to tell; 

But friends and folk tjiat wish me well. 

They sometimes roose^"* me ; 
Though I maun^^ own, as mony still 

As far abuse me. 

There's ae wee faut'^^ they whiles lay 

to me, 
I like the lasses — Gude forgie me ! 
For mony a plack they wheedle frae 

At dance or fair; 
Maybe some ither thing they gie me, 
They weel can spare. 

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
1 should be proud to meet you there; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to Care, 

If we forgather, 
And hae a swap"'' o' rhymin' ware 

Wi' ane anither. 

The four -gill chap'^^ we'se gar^^ him 
clatter, 



. " Then. 20 Allan Ramsay. «» Sly. 
"» Learning. "3 Will not. 24 Praise. 25 Must 
9« Small fault, 27 ^q easchange, ?» gtoup. 
" Make. 



And kirsen^** him wi' reekin' water; 
Syne we'll sit down and tak our whit* 
ter,3» 

To cheer our heart; 
And faith, we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 

There's naething like the honest nap 

py !=^-^ 
Whar'lP^ ye e'er see men sae happy, j 
Or women sonsie, saft, and sappy'" j 

'Twe'en morn and morn, 
As them wha like to taste the drappy^* 

In glass or horn I 

I've seen me dais't^® upon a time, 
I scarce could wink, or see a styme;'' 
Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime. 

Aught less is little, 
Then back I rattle on the rhyme. 

As gleg's a whittle I''* 

Awa' ye selfish war'ly race, [grace, 
Wha think that havins,^* sense, and 
E'en love and friendship, should give 
place 

To catch-the-plack !^ 
I dinna*' like to see your face. 

Nor hear your crack. *^ 

But ye whom social pleasure charms. 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness 

warms. 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

" Each aid the others," 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms. 

My friends, my brothers. 

But to conclude my long epistle, 
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle; 
Twa lines frae you would gar me fi* 
sle,« 

Who am, most fervent. 
While I can either sing or whissle. 

Your friend and servant. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO LAPRAIK. 

April -ZY^ 1785, 

While new-ca'd kye rowte' at the 

stake, 
And pownies reele' in pleugh or braik,* 



30 Christen. 3i Hearty draught. '2 Ale. 
33 Where will. 34 Comely. 35 Smalldrop. 
3" Stupid. 37 See in the least. 38 As keen as 
a knife. 39 Decorum, ^o fo seek after 
money. " Do not. <2 Talk. <3 Fidget. 

* Driven gows iQWt ^ §moke, » warrpnn 



154 



BURNS' WORKS. 



This liour on e'enin's edge I take. 
To own I'm debtor 

To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 
For his kind letter. 

Forjesket sair," wi' weary legs', 
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing through amang the naigs 

Their ten -hours' bite, 
My awkward Muse sair pleads and 
begs 

I wouldna write. 

The tapetless ramfeezled hizzie,^ 
She's saft at best, and something lazy, 
Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae 
busy. 

This month, and mair, 
That, trouth, my head is grown right 
dizzy. 

And something sair." 

Her dowff ^ excuses pat me mad: 
"Conscience," says I, "ye thowless 

jad!' 
I'll write, and that a hearty blaud,^ 

This vera night; 
So dinna ye affront your trade. 

But rhyme it right. 

"Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' 

hearts. 
Though mankind were a pack o' cartes^ 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts. 

In terms sae friendly. 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, 

And thank him kindly?" 

Sae I gat paper in a blink,' 

And down gaed stumpie in the ink: 

Quoth I, " Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it; 
And if ye winna mak it clink,'" 

By Jove I'll prose it! " 

Sae, I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, 
Or some hotch-potch* that's rightly 
neither. 

Let time mak proof ; 

* Worn sore with fatigue, ^ The heedless 

and exhausted jade. * Silly. ' Lazy jade. 
« Quantity. • Twinkling. i° Rhyme 

* Hotch potch is the Scotch name for a soup 
made of all sorts of vegetables. No other ex- 
planation could give a proper idea of the 
neaainjf Qf t^e phrase berei 



But I shall scribble down soma 
blether" 

Just clean aff-loof.f 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge and 
carp, [sharp; 

Though Fortune use you hard and 
Come, kittle''^ up your moorland-harp 

Wi' gleesome touch ! 
Ne'er mind how P'ortune waft and 
warp; 

She's but a bitch. 

She's gien" me mony a jert and lieg ••* 

Sin' I could striddle owre a rig^; 

But, by the Lord, though I should beg 

Wi, lyart pow,'^ 
I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg, 

As lang'saJ dow ! "^ 

Now comes the sax and twentieth sim- 
mer 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer," 
Still persecuted by the limmer'* 

Frae year to year; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,'^ 

I, Rob, am here. 

Do you envy the city gent, 

Behint a kist to lie and sklent,:J: 

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 

And muckle wame,^** 
In some bit brugli to represent 

A bailie's name ? 

Or is't the paughty,^' feudal thane, 
Wi' ruffled sark and glancing cane, 
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank 
bane, 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps and bonnets aff are ta'en,^ 

As by he walks. 

Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! J 

Gie me o' wit and sense a lift. 

Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift. 

Through Scotland wide; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna i shift. 

In a' their pride 1 

Were this the charter of our state, 
' ' On pain o' hell be rich and great," 

11 Nonsense. 12 xickle. > 3 Given. "Jerlj. 
and kick. '^ Gray head. '* Can. •» Tree 
i« Jade. J» Girl. 20 Big belly. »» Haughty.^ 
22 Taken. 

t Scotticism for extemporaneous. 

t behind a counter to lie and leer. 



EPISTLES. 



1S5 



spamnation then would be our fate 

Beyond remead; 
But, thanks to Heaven, that's no the 
gate 

We learn our creed. 

'For thus the royal mandate ran. 
When first the human race began. 
The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan. 

And none but he !" 

O mandate, glorious and divine ! 
The ragged followers o' the Nine, 
Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may 
shine 

In glorious light, 
While sordid sons o' Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 

Though here they scrape, and squeeze, 

and growl. 
Their worthless nievef u'^^ of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl, 

The forest's fright; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and 
joys. 

In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties 

Each passing year I 



EPISTLE TO JOHN GOUDIE, KIL- 
MARNOCK, 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 

I John Goudie was a Kilmarnock tradesman. 
His Essay, fully discussing the authority of 
the Holy Scriptures, first appeared in 1780, 
and a new edition in 1785. The publication 
of the new edition called forth the foUowiiig 
epistle from the poet :— 

O Goudie ! terror of the Whigs, 
Dread of black coats and reverend wigs, 
Bour Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin',^ looks back, 
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 



Poor gapin', glowrin,^ Superstition, 
Waes me ! she's in a sad condition; 
Fie ! bring Black Jock,* her state 
physician, 

To see her water; 
Alas ! there's ground o' great suspicioB 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Auld Orthodoxy long did grapple, 
But now she's got an unco ripple;^ 
Haste, gie her name u i' the chapel. 

Nigh unto death; 
See how she fetches at the thrapple,^ 

And gasps for breath 1 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 
Gaen^ in a galloping consumption. 
Not a' the quacks, wi'.a' their gump. 
tion,^ 

Will ever mend her. 
Her feeble pulse gies strong presump- 
tion 

Death soon will end her. 

'Tis you and Taylorf are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief; 
But gin the Lord's ain folk gat leave, 

A toom'' tar-barrel 
And twa red peats^ wad send relief, 

And end the quarrel. 



W Haadiul. 



Grioning. 



EPISTLE TO WILyAM SIMPSON, 

OCHILTREE. 

May^ 1785. 

William Simpson was schoolmaster of Ochil- 
tree, a parish a few miles south of Mauch- 
line. According to Mr. Chambers, he had 
sent a rhymed epistle to Burns, on reading 
hisisatireof the '* Twa Herds," which called 
forth the following beautiful epistle in re- 
ply:— 

I GAT your letter, winsome' Willie; 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank vou braw 

lie,-^ 
Though I maun say't, I wad be silly. 

And unco vain, 
Should I believe, my coaxin' billie,' 

Your flatterin' strain. 



2 Staring. ^ Pains in the back and loins. 
* Throat. ^ Gone. « Knowledge. ^ Empty. 
8 Two burning peats to set fire to the tat 
barrel. 

» Hearty. " Heartily. ^ Fellow. 

* The Rev. John Russell, Kilmarnock, OMT 
of the heroes of the " Twa Herds." 

t Dr. Taylor of Norwich.— B, 



156 



BURNS' WORKS. 



But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud* be laitli, to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented* 

On my poor Musie; 
Though in sic phrasin'^ terms yeVo 
penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel,* 
Should I but dare a hope to speel, 
Wi' Allan or wi' Gilbertfield,f 

The braes o' fame; 
Or Fergusson,! the writer chiel, 

A deathless name. 

(0 Fergusson, thy glorious parts 

111 suited law's dry musty arts ! 

My curse upon your whunstane hearts. 

Ye E'nbrugh gentry ! 
The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes'' 

Wad stow'd** his pantry ! ) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 

Or lasses gie my heart a screed,^ 

As whiles they're like to be my dead, 

(0 sad disease !) 
I kittle'® up my rustic reed; 

It gies me ease. 

Auld Coila§ now may fidge fu' fain," 
She's gotten poets o' her ain, [liain^^ 
Chiels'* wha their chanters winna 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Kae poet thought her worth his while, 
To set her name in measured style; 
She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle 

Beside New Holland, 
Or where wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 

Ramsay and famous Fergusson 
Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon;'* 



* Should, s Obliquely directed. ^ Flatter- 
ing. ' Cards. « Stored. » Rent, lo Tickle. 
11 Fidget with joy. " Fellows. " Will not 
spare. ** Above. 

* A basket. When a person's wits are sup- 
posed to be a wool-gathering, he is said to be 
in a creel. 

+ Allan Ramsay, and William Hamilton of 
Gilbertfield, a forgotten poet and contempo- 
rary of Ramsay's. 

^ Robert Fergusson, the poet. 

§ An application frequently applied by 
puras to the district of Kyle. 



Yarrow and Tweed, to mony a tune, 
Owre Scotland rings, 

While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon, 
Naebody sings. 

Th' missus, Tiber, Thames, and 

Seine, 
Glide sweet in mony a tunefu' line ! 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine. 

And cock'* your crest. 
We'll gar'^ our streams and bumiee 
shine 

Up wi' the best 

We'll sing auld Coila's plains and fells, 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather- bells. 
Her banks and braes, her dens and 
dells. 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bare the gree,'^ as story tells, 

Frae southron billies. 

At Wallace' name what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward, red-wat shod,'* 

Or glorious died. 

Oh, sweet are Coila's haughs'' and 

woods, [buds, 

When lint whites chant amang the 

And jinkin"^" hares, in amorous whids,|| 

Their love enjoy. 
While through the braes the cushat 
croods^' 

With wailfu' cry ! 

Even winter bleak has charms to me, 
Wlien winds rave through the naked 

tree; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Darkening the day ! 

Nature ! a' thy shows and forms. 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charmsl 
Whether the summer kindly warms 

Wi' life and light. 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms. 

The lang, dark night! 



>5 Elevate. " Make. " Often bore the bell 
"* Their shoes red in blood. " Meadows. 
20 Dodging. 21 Coos. 

II A word expressive of the quick, nimblQ 
movements of the hare. 



I 



EPISTLES. 



15T 



The Muse, nae poet ever fand^"^ her, 
Till by himself he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meander, 

And no think lang; 
Oh, sweet to stray, and pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang! 

The war'ly race may drudge and drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie/^ stretch, and 

strive — 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive,^^ 

And I, wi' pleasure. 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum owre-^ their treasure 

Fareweel, " my rhyme - composing 
brither!" [ither:'-'" 

We've been owre lang unkenn'd to 
Now let us lay our heads thegither, 

In love fraternal, 
May Envy wallop^^ in a tether'^^ 

Black fiend, infernal! 

While Highlandmen hate tolls and 
taxes; [braxies,T[ 

While moorlan' herds like guid fat 
While terra firma on her axis 

Diurnal turns. 
Count ou a friend, in faith and practice, 

In Robert Burns. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

My memory's no worth a preen :-^ 

I had amaist forgotten clean 

Ye bade me write you what they mean 

By this New Light,* * 
'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been 

Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but cal- 

lans^° 
At grammar, logic, and sic talents. 
They took nae pains" their speech to 

balance, 



Or rules to 



gie. 



But spak their thoughts in plain, braid 
lallans,^^ 

Like you or me. 



22 Found. 23 Jostle, push. 24 Describe. 
'^ Hum over. 2" Too long unknown to 
each other, 27 Struggle. 2« Rope. 2h pin. 
'° Juveniles. 3i Give. 32 Lowland speech. 

^ Sheep which have died, of disease; and 
which are understood to belong to the shep- 
nerds as their perquisites. 

♦* An allusion to the " Twa Herds." 



In thae auld times, they thought the 

moon, 
Just like a sark,^^ or pair of shoon,^^ 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon^^ 

Gaed past their viewing, 
And shortly after she was done. 

They gat a new one. 

This pass'd for certain — undisputed: 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
Till chiels^^ gat up and wad confute it. 

And ca'd it wrang: 
And muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud and lang. 

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the 

beuk,=*' [teuk;3» 

Wad threap^^ auld folk the thing mis- 

For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a 

neuk,'*'^ 

And out o' sight, 
And backlins'*'-comin', to the leuk^^ 
She grew mair bright. 

This was denied — it was affirm'd; 
The herd and hirsels"*^ were alarm'd; 
The reverend gray -beards raved and 
storm'd 

That beardless laddies'** 
Should think they better were in- 
form'd 

Than their auld daddies'*' 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; 
Frae words and aiths to clours and 

nicks ;^^ 
And mony a fallow gat his licks,*'' 

Wi' hearty. crunt:'*^ 
And some, to learn them for their 
tricks. 

Were hang'd and brunt. 

This game was play'd in mony lands. 
And Auld-Light caddies'*^ bure sic 
hands [sands 

That, faith, the youngsters took the 

Wi' nimble shanks,^" 
Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But New -Light herds gat sic a cowe,^' 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick and 

stowe,^'' 



33 Shirt. 34 Shoes, *» Shred. "« Fellows. 
3'' Book. 3« Argue. 39 Mistook, ^o Corner. 
4' Backwards. ^'^'LooV.. 43 Flocks. 44 Lads. 
45 Fathers. 46 Blows and cuts. 47 Got a beat« 
vt^g. 48 Dint. 49 Fellows, 6° Legs, ^i SucM 
a fright. ^^ Stump and may). 



i58 



BURNS' WORKS 



Till now amaist on every knowe^^ 
Yell find ane placed; 

And some their New-Light fair avow, 
Just quite barefaced. 

Nae doubt the Auld-Light flocks are 
bleatin' ; [sweatin' ; 

Their zealous herds are vex'd and 
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin'^^ 

Wi' girnin'°^ spite, 
To hear the moon sae sadly lied on, 

By word and write. 

But shortly they will cowe the loons !^^ 
Some Auld-Light herds ianeibor towns 
4.re mind't, in things they ca' balloons. 

To tak a flight, 
And stay ae month amaug the moons. 

And see them right. 

Guid observation they will gie them; 
And when the auld moon's gaun to 
lea'e them, [wi' them, 

The hiudmost shaird,^"' they'll fetch it 

Just i' their pouch, ^^ 
And when the New-Light billies^^ see 
them, 

I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observed that a' this clatter^" 
Is naething but a "moonshine matter;" 
But though dull prose-folk Latin splat- 
ter 

In logic tulzie,®^ 
I hope we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie.®^ 



THIRD EPISTLE TO JOHN 
LAPRAIK 

This epistle did not appear in either of the 
editions of his works which the poet saw 
through the press. It was written while in 
the midst of his second harvest, at Mossgiel 
—an unfortunate one, as it proved ; for be- 
ing both a late and a wet season, an evil 
conjunction on the cold wet soil, half the 
crops were lost. 

September 13, 1785= 

GuTD speed and furder* to you, Johnny, 
Guid health, hale ban's, and weather 
bonny; 



S3 Hillock, s^ Crying. ^^ Grinning, ^e 
Rascals. ^7 shred. 6« Pocket, s? Fellows. 
•0 Gossip. «i Contention. «2 Broils. 

* Good speed and success in furtherance to 

you. 



Now when ye're nickan^ down fa' 
canny 

The staff o' bread. 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y 
To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thrash your rigs,f 
Nor kick your rickles^ aff their legs, 
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs and haggs' 

Like drivin' wrack; 
But may the tapmast grain that wags 

Come to the sack, 

I'm bizzie too, and skelpin'-^ at it, 
But bitter, daudin'' showers hae wat it, 
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark, 
And took my jocteleg** and whatf it, 

Likeony dark. 

It's now twa month that I'm youf 
debtor, [ter. 

For your braw, nameless, dateless let* 
Abusin' me for harsh ill nature 

On holy men. 
While deil a hair yoursel ye're better. 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells. 
Let's sing about our noble sels; 
We'll cry nae jads^ frae heathen hills 

To help or roose^ us. 
But browster wives^*^ and whisky stills. 

They are the muses. 

Your friendship, sir, I winna quat it> 
And if ye mak objections at it. 
Then han' in nieve" some day we'll 
knot'- it. 

And witness take. 
And when wi' usquebae we've wat it. 

It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks'^ be spared 
Till kye be gaun'^ without the herd. 
And a' the vitteP^ in the yard, 

And theekit'^ right, 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 

» Cutting. 2 Stooks or shocks of corn. 
3 Morasses. ■* Driving at it. ^ Wind-drivea 
6 Clasp-knife. '' Cut or sharpened it. « Muses 
8 Rouse. 1" Ale-house wives. '* Hand in fist 
12 Bind. 13 Bridle. " Going. 1* Victual 
»6 Thatched. 

+ May Boreas never shake the com m youl 
rid£^es. 



EPISTLES. 



15» 



Then muse-inspirin' aqua vitae [witty, 
Shall make us baitli sae blithe and 
Till ye forget ye're auld and gatty,'"' 

And be as canty "^ [ty.^^ 

As ye were nine years less than thret 

Sweet ane and twenty I 

But stocks are cowpit^" wi' the blast, 
And now the sinn keeks"^' in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest. 

And quat my chanter; 
Sae I subscribe myself in haste, 

Yours, Rab the Ranter, 



EPISTLE TO THE REV. JOHN 
M'MATH. 

The Rev. John M'Math was at this time assist- 
ant to the Rev. Peter Wodrow of Tort)olton. 
As a copy of " Holy Willie's Prayer" accom- 
panied the epistle, we need hardly say he 

I was a member of the New-light party. 
The bleak ungenial harvest weather is very 

j graphically pictured in the &r< verse. 

September 17, 1785. 

While at the stook the shearers^ cower 
To shun the bitter blaudin^ shower. 
Or in gulravage rinnin' scower^ 

To pass the time. 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 

]\Iy Musie, tired wi' mony a sonnet 
On gown, and ban', and douce^ black 

bonnet. 
Is grown right eerie^ now she's done it, 
Lest they should blame her, 
And rouse their holy thunder on it 
And anathem her. 

I 3wn 'twas rash, and rather hardy, 
That I, a simple country bardie. 
Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me. 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Lowse hell upon me. 

But I gae mad at their grimaces. 
Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud 
faces, 



" Frail, le 



• Thirty. 20 Over- 



turned. a» Sun blinks. 

1 Harvest people. ^ Pelting. 3 Run riotous- 
ly for affiu^ewept. ^ S^datf f * TinaoroM^. 



Their three-mile prayers, and half-mile 
graces; 

Their raxin'^ conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, and pride dis- 
graces 

Waur nor'' their nonseuse. 

There's Gawn,* misca't^ waur than a 

beast, 
Wha has mair honour in his breast 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus't him. 
And may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've use't him? 

See him, the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
And shall his fame and honour bleed 

By worthless skellums,* 
And not a muse erect her head 

To CO we the blellums V^ 

Pope, had I thy satire's darts, 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts. 

And tell aloud. 
Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts, 

To cheat the crowd. 

God knows, I'm no the thing I should 

be, 
Nor am I even the thing I could be. 
But twenty times I rather would be 

An atheist clean. 
Than under gospel colours hid be 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass. 
An honest man may like a lass. 
But mean revenge, and malice fause,*' 

He'll still disdain, 
And then cry zeal for gospel laws. 

Like some we ken. 

They take religion in their mouth; 
They talk o' mercy, grace, and truth, 
For what ? — to gie their malice skouth'* 

On some puir wight, ^^ 
And hunt him down, o'er right and 
ruth,»'» 

To ruin straight. 



® Stretching. '' Worse than. ^ Misnamed 
9 Wretches, i" Fellows. ^» False. "« Sgop© 
13 Fellow. »4 Mercy. 



Q^vm liamiU^n, 



/60 



BURNS' WORKS. 



All hail. Religion 1 maid divine ! 
Pardon a Muse sae mean as mine, 
Who. in her rough imperfect line, 

Thus daurs to name thee; 
To stigmatise false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Though blocht and foul wi' mony a 

stain. 
And far unworthy of thy train. 
With trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join with those 
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain 

In spite o' foes; 

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite o' undermining jobs. 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs ■ 

At worth and merit. 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

But hellish spirit. 

O Ayr ! my dear, my native ground, 
Within thy presbyterial bound, 
A candid liberal band is found 

Of public teachers,' 
As men, as Christians too, renown'd. 

And manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are named; 
Sir, in that circle you are famed; 
And some, by whom your doctrine's 
blamed, 

(Which gies you honour), 
Even, sir, by them your heart's es- 
teem'd, 

And winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en. 
And if impertinent I've been. 
Impute it not, good sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET. 

AuLD Neibor, 
I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor. 
For your auld-f arrant' friend'ly letter; 
Though I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair. 
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter 
Some less maun sair.^ 



» §a§faciou5. * Must 5erv«, 



Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle; 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,' 
To cheer you through the weary widdle* 

O' war'ly cares. 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle* 

Your auld gray hairs. 

But, Davie, lad, I'm rede ye're glakit;* 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit; 
And gif it 's sae, ye sud be licket^ 

Until ye fyke;^ 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit,* 

Be haint'" wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink 
Rivin'^' the words to gar'"^ them clinki 
Whiles dais't'3 wi' love, whiles dais't 
wi' drink, 

Wi' jads or masons; 
And whiles, but aye owre late, I think 
Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen' me to the bardie clan; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin' clink. 
The devil-haet,'^ that I sud ban. 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o? 

livin', 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin'; 
But just the pouchie^^ put the nieve** 

ill, 

And while ought's there. 
Then hiltie skiltie*'' we gae scrievin'," 
And fash'^ nae mair. 

Leeze me^° on rhyme ! its aye a treas- 
ure. 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
"Ait hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure, 
h The Muse, poor hizzie!^' 

Jhough rough and raploch'^'^ be her 
measure. 

She's seldom lazy. 

Hand to the Muse, my dainty Davie, 
The warl may play you mony a sha- 
vie;'-*^ 



3 Elbow dodge and jerk. * Struggle. ' 
Fondle. * I fear you are foolish. '' Should 
be beaten. « Shrug. » Spared. " Saved. 
" Twisting. ^^ Make. '^ Stupid. ** The 
devil a bit. >5 Pocket. »« Fist. " Helter 
skelter. •« Go smoothly. '» Trouble, ^o \ 
term of endearment, an expression of happi- 
ness or pleasure. '** Lass. ^^ Coarse. ^' TrigiE» 



EPISTLES. 



lei 



But for the Muse she'll never leave ye. 
Though e'er so puir, 

Na, even though Ihupin' w^i' the spa- 
vie''^* 

Frae door to door. 



EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH. 

|ames Smith, one of Burns' earliest friends, 
was a merchant in Mauchhne. He was 
present at the scene in " Poosie Nansie's," 
which suggested " The Jolly Beggars." 

** Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ! 
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society ! 
1 owe thee much."— Blair. 

Dear Smith, the sleest,' paukie' thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief,^ 
Ye surely hae some warlock breef* 

Owre human hearts; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief^ 

Agamst your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun and moon, 
And .every star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair of shoon^ 
j Just gaun to see you; 

^ And every ither pair that's done, 

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you. 

That auld capricious carlin,' Nature, 
1 To mak amends for scrimpit* stature, 
I She's turn'd ypu aff , a human creature 
On her first plan; 
And in her freaks, on every feature 

She's wrote, "The Man." 

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie^ noddle's working prime, 
My fancy yerkit"^ up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon: 
Hae ye a leisure moment's time 

To hear what's comin'? 

Some rhyme a neibor's name to lash; 
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' 
cash; [clash," 

Some rhyme to court the country 

And raise a din,''^ 
For me, an aim I never fash;'^ 

I rhyme for fun. 



a* Spavin. 
» Slyest. ' Knowing. « Robbery. ■• Spell. 

• Proof. • Shoes. ^ Woman. « Stinted. 

* Yeasty. *» Fermented, " Gossip, '« Noise. 
»• Trouble. ^ 



The star that rules my luckless lot 

Has fated me the russet coat. 

And damn'd my fortune to the groat; 

But in requit, 
Has blessed me wi' a random shot 

O' country wit. 

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent '* 
To try my fate in guid black prent; 
But still, the mair I'm that way beiv. 
Something cries, " Hoolie!'^ 
I rede'® you, honest man, tak tent," 
Ye'll shaw your folly. 

"There's ither poets much your betters 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters 
Hae thought they had insured their 
debtors 

A' future ages; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tatters 

Their unknown pages." 

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs 
To garland my poetic brows! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy 
ploughs 

Are whistling thrang. 
And teach the lan'ely heights and 
howes*^ 

My ru£t'C sang. 

I'll wander on, with tentless^' heed 
How never halting moments speed. 
Till Fate shall snap the brittle thread; 

Then, all- unknown, 
I'll lay me with inglorious dead. 

Forgot and gone! 

But why o' death begin a tale ? 

Just now we're living sound and hale, 

Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave Care owre side ! 
And large, before Enjoyment's gale. 

Let's tak the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand. 

Is a' enchanted fairy-land, 

Where Pleasure is the magic wand, 

That, wielded right, 
Maks hours like minutes, hand in ha»d, 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic wand then jet us wield, 
For, ance that five-and forty's speel'd,'* 



i* Twist. '* Beware. •"» Warn. »' Car^ 
i8 Hollows. "Aiinles§. «« CUmbe4. 



m 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Bee, crazy, weary, joyless Eild,'^* 
Wi' wrinkled face, 

Comes hostiii',22 liirplin',*^ owre the 
field, 

Wi' creepin' pace. 

When ance life's day draws near the 

gloamin', 
Then f are weel vacant careless roamin' ; 
And f areweel cheerf u' tankards f oamin' 

And social noise; 
And fareweel, dear deluding woman ! 
The joy of joys ! 

O Life ! how pleasant is thy morning, 

Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 

Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 
We frisk away, [ing, 

Like schoolboys, at the expected warn- 
To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here. 
We eye the rose upon the brier. 
Unmindful that the thorn is near. 

Among the leaves; 
And though the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flowery spot, 
For which they never toil'd or swat;'^^ 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat 

But care or pain; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim some fortune chase; 
Keen hope does every sinew brace; 
Through fair, through foul, they urge 
the race 

And seize the prey: 
Then cannie,^^ in some cozie*^ place, 

They close the day. 

And others like your humble servan'. 
Poor wights l^'' nae rules nor rodes ob- 

servin' 
To right or left, eternal swervin'. 

They zig-zag on; [vin', 
Till curst with age, obscure and star- 
They aften groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil and straining — 
But truce with peevish, poor complain- 
ing 1 

» Age. 23 Coughing. ^^ Limping, 

«« Sweated. »» J^uieuy. ** Saug. ^t Fellow*. 



Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning? 

E'en let her gang ! 
Beneath what light she has remaining. 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door. 

And kneel, "Ye Powers 1" and warm 

implore, 
' ' Though I should wander Terra o'ei;' 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more. 
Aye rowth^^ o' rhymes. 

' ' Gie dreeping roasts to country lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards; 
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards. 

And maids of honour ! 
And yill and whisky gie to cairds,"^' 

Until they sconner,^** 

" A title, Dempster* merits it; 

A garter gie to Willie Pitt; 

Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit. 

In cent, per cent. ; 
But gie me real, sterling wit. 

And I'm content. 

"While ye are pleased to keep me 

hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail,^* 

Wi' cheerfu' face. 
As lang's the Muses dinna fail 

To say the grace. " 

An anxious ee I never throws 

Behint my lug^'^ or by my nose; 

I jouk^^ beneath Misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may. 
Sworn foe to Sorrow, Care, and Prose, 

I rhyme away, 

ye douvc^* folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless- blooded, calm and cool, 
Compared wi' you — O fool! fool! fool' 

How much unliiv^ 
Your hearts are just a standing pooi. 

Your lives a dikel^^ 

Nae harebrain'd, sentimental traces. 
In your unletter'd nameless faces! 



28 Abundance. 29 Tinkers. 30 Are nauseated, 
3 J Broth made without mea '2 Ear. 

33 Stoop. 34 Serious. 35 Blank as a wall, 
* George Dempster of Dunnichen, a fK%9ir 
mtntary orator ol the tiiQ«, 



EPISTLES. 



163 



\a arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray. 
But gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Te are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; 

Nae ferly^"^ though ye do despise 

The hairum-scairum, ram-stam^^ boys, 

The rattling squad. 
t see you upward cast your eyes 

Ye ken the road. 

^rjiiist I— but I shall haud me there— 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where— 
flJhen, Jamie, I shall say nae mair 

But quat my sang, 
ttiBteut wi' you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



EPISTLE TO GAVIN HAlVflLTON, 

Esq., 

recommending a boy 

Gavin Hamilton, solicitor in Mauchline, was 
a warm and generous friend of the poet's, 
a New-Ltght partisan who had suffered 
from Auld-Light persecutions. 

MosGAViLLE, May 3, 1786. 

I HOLD it, sir, my bounden duty 

To warn you how that Master Tootie, 

Alias, Laird M'Gaun, 
"Was here to hire yon lad away 
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, 

And wad hae done't aff han';^ 
But lest he learn the callan^ tricks, 

As, faith, I muckle doubt him, 
Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's 

I nicks. 

And tellin' lies about them: 
As lieve^ then, I'd have then, 

Your clerkship he should sair, 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted other where. 

Although I say't, he's gleg^ enough, 
And 'bout a house that's rude and 
rough, 
The boy might learn to swear, 
,But then wi' you he'll be sae taught. 



And get sic fair example straught, 

I haena ouy fear. 
Ye'll catechise him every quirk. 
And shore* him weel wi' hell. 
And gar** him follow to the kirk- • 
Aye when ye gang yoursel. 
If ye then, maun be then 

Frae hame this comin' Friday; 
Then please sir, to lea'e, sir. 
The orders wi' your lady. 

My word of honour I hae gien, 

In Paisley John's, that night at e'ea. 

To meet the warld's worm;^ 
To try to get the twa to gree, 
And name the airles* and the fee. 

In legal mode and form. 
I ken he weel a sneck can draw,* 

When simple bodies let him; 
And if a devil be at a', 

In faith he's sure to get him. 
To phrase you^ and praise you, 
Yg ken your laureate scorns: 
The prayer still, you share still. 
Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 



" Wonder. " Reckless. 

» Off-hand. ' Boy. » More willingly. 
'Sharp. 



POETICAL INVITATION TO MR. 
JOHN KENNEDY. 

This rhymed epistle was accompanied by a 
prose letter, and a copy of the '' Cotter's 
Saturday Night " Kennedy had interested 
himself greatly in the success of the Kilmar- 
nock edition of the poems. He was after- 
wards factor to the Marquis of Breadal- 
bane. 

Now Kennedy, if foot or horse 
E'er bring you in by Mauchline corse,* 
Lord, man, there's lasses there wad 
force 

A hermit's fancy; [worse. 
And down the gate, in faith they're 

And mair unchancy. 

But, as I'm sayin', please step to Dow-s» 
And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews. 
Till some bit callant^ bring me news 

That you are there, 
And if we dinna haud a bouze 

I'se ne'er drink mair. 



6 Threaten. • Make, 
ture. ^ Earnest money 
age. 

» Mauchline market cross 



■^ Avaricious crea« 
» Can take advaot* 

Boy 



m 



BtTRNS' WORKS. 



It's no I like to sit and swallow, 
Then like a s'vino to puke s.m\ v.al'.ov/; 
But gie me just a true good 1 allow, 

Wi' right ingiue,^ 
And spunkie,"* ance to make us mellow, 

And then we'll shine. 

Now, if ye're ane o' warld's folk, 
Wha rate the wearer by the cloak, 
And sklent^ on poverty their joke, 

Wi' bitter sneer, 
Wi' you no friendship will 1 troke,^ 

Nor cheap nor dear. 

But if, as I'm informed weel, 
Ye hate, as ill's the very deil, 
The flinty heart that canna feel — 

Come, sir, here's tae you ! 
Hae, there's my haun', I wiss you weel, 

And guid be wi' you. 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

This epistle was addressed to Andrew Aiken, 
the son of his old friend Robert Aiken, writer 
in Ayr. Andrew Aiken afterwards earned 
distinction in the service of his country. 

May, 1786. 

1 LANG hae thought, my youthfu' 
friend, 

A something .to have sent you, 
Though it should serve nae other end 

Than just a kind memento. 
But how the subject theme may gang, 

Let time and chance determine, 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang. 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

Ye'll try the world f u' soon my lad. 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
You'll find mankind an unco squad,* 

And muckle they may grieve ye: 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Even when your end's attain'd. 
And a' your views may come to nought, 

Where every nerve is strain'd. 

Ill no say men are villains a': 
The real, harden'd, wicked, 

Wha hae nae check but human law, 
Are tc a few restricked : 



• Genius or temperament, * Whisky is 
meant. • Throw. * Exchange. 

^ ^ueer lot. 



But, och ! mankind are unco' weak. 

And little to be trusted; 
If self the wavering balance shake. 

It's rarely right adjusted ! 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife. 

Their fate we shouldna censure, 
For still the important end of life 

They equally may answer; 
A man may hae an honest heart. 

Though poortith^ hourly stare him? 
A man may tak a neibor's part. 

Yet hae na cash to spare him. 

Aye free aff han' * your story tell. 

When wi' a bosom crony;' 
But still keep something to yoursel 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel, as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection; 
But keek® through every other man, 

Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-placed Iovq, 

Luxuriantly indulge it; 
But never tempt the illict rove. 

Though naething should divulge it: 
I waive the quantum o' the sin. 

The hazard of concealing; 
But, och ! it hardens a' within. 

And petrifies the feeling ! 

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile. 

Assiduous wait upon her; 
And gather gear"" by every wile 

That's justified by hoxiour; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge. 

Nor for a train-attendant; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip 

To hand the wretch in order; 
But where ye feel your honour grip. 

Let that aye be your border: 
Its slightest touches, instant pause »• 

Debar a' side pretenses; 
And resolutely keep its laws. 

Uncaring consequences. 

The great Creator to revere 
Must sure become the creature; 

But still the preaching cant forbear. 
And even the rigid feature: 

2 Very. 'Poverty. '•Off-hand.' ' Boov 
companion^ • Look pryingly. 'Wealth. 



EPISTLES. 



1«5 



i et ne'er with wits profane to range, 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An atheist laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended! 

When ranting round in Pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded; 
Or if she gie a random sting, 

It may belittle minded; 
But when on life we're tempest-driven, 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heaven 

Is sure a noble anchor! 

Adieu, dear, amiabl' fouth! 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting! 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth 

Erect your brow undaunting ! 
In ploughman phrase, " God send you 



Still daily to grow wiser; 
And may you better reck the rede 
Than ever did th' adviser! 



EPISTLE TO MR. M'ADAM OF 
CRAIGENGILLAN. 

The following was written on receiving a let- 
ter, congratulating him on his poetic efforts, 
i from Mr. M'Adam. 

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 
1 trow' it made me proud; 

•• See wha taks notice o' the bard!" 
I lap"^ and cried fu' loud. 

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, 
The senseless, gawky ^ million; 

I'll cock my nose aboon them a' — 
Tm roos'd"* by Craigengillan ! 

Twas noble, sir; 'twas like yoursel. 
To grant your high protection- 

A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well. 
Is aye a blest infection. 

Though by his* banes wha in a tub 
Match'd Macedonian Sandy !f 

On my ain legs, through dirt and dub, 
1 independent stand aye. 



» Vow. » Leaped. » Silly, « Praised. 

♦ Diogenes. 

t Alexander the Great. 



And when those legs to guid warm 
kail, 5 

Wi' welcome canna bear me; 
A lee dike-side,* a sybow"" tail. 

And barley scone* shall cheer me. 

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the 
breath 

O' mony flowery simmers! 
And bless your bonny lasses baith — 

I'm tauld they're loe'some kimmersl* 

And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, 
The blossom of our gentry! 

And may he wear an auld man's beard, 
A credit to his country. 



EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. 

Major Logan, a retired military officer, lived 
at Park House, near Ayr, with his mother 
and sister— the latter the Miss Logan to 
whom Burns addressed some verses, with a 
present of Beattie's poems. 

Hail, thairm' inspirin', rattlin' Willie! 
Though Fortune's road be rough and 

hilly 
To every fiddling, rhyming billie. 

We never heed. 
But tak it like the unback'd filly, 

Proud o' her speed. 

When idly goavan'^ whiles we saunter, 
Yirr, Fancy barks, awa' we canter, 
Up hill, down brae, till some mischan- 
ter,2 

Some black bog-hole, 
Arrests us, then the scaith and banter 

We're forced to thole.* 

Hale be your heart I hale be your fiddle! 

Lang may your elbuck jink and did- 

dle,*5 [dle« 

To cheer you through the weary wid- 

0' this wide warl'. 
Until you on a cummock driddle'' 

A gray-hair'd carl. 



6 Broth. * A shadv wall-side. '' The youogf 
onion. ^ Cake. * Heart-enticing creatures. 

' Fiddle-string. "^ Walking aimlessly ^ Mis- 
hap. < Bear. ^ Elbow dodge and jerlu 
* Struggle. "^ Until you hobble on a staffs 

'* These two lines also occur in the Secoo4 
Epistle to Davie. ^ 



166 



BURNS' woRK:s 



Come wealth, ccme poortitli'^ late or 
soon, [tune, 

Heaven send your heart-strings aye in 
And screw your temper-pins aboon, 

A fifth or mair, 
The melancholious, lazy croon' 

O' cankrie carel 

May still your life from day to day 
Nae lente largo in the play, 
BmX allegretto forte gay 

Hamionious flow, 
A. sweeping, kindling, bauld strath- 
spey — 

Encore! Bravo 1 

K blessing on the cheery gang 
WTia dearly like a jig or sang, 
Ajid never think o' right and wrang 

By square and rule, 
Put as the clegs^" o' feeling stang 

Are ^vise or fool! 

My hand- waled" curse keep hard in 
chase [race, 

The harpy, hoodock,'^ purse -pro ad 
Wha count on poortith as disgrace — 

Their tuneless hearts ! 
May fireside discords jar a base 

To a' their parts! 

But come, your hand, my careless 

brither — 
I' th' ither Warl', if there's anither — 
And that there is I've little s wither'^ 

About the matter — 
We cheek for chow'"* shall jog the- 
gither, 

I'se ne'er bid better. 

We've faults and failings — granted 

clearly, 
We're frail backsliding mortals merely, 
Eve's bonny squad, priests wyte-* them 
sheerly,'® 

For our grand fa' [ly — 
But still — but still — I like them dear- 
God bless them a'! 

Ochon ! for poor Castalian drinkers, 
When they fa' foul o' earthly j inkers,*' 



•Poverty. •Drone. «° Gadflies. '-» Chosen. 
»' Money-loving. '^ Doubt '* Jole. *"> Blame. 
*• Sorely. »' Sprightly girls. 



The witching, cursed, delicious blink 
ers'* 

Hae put me hyte,'' [ers,* 
And gart me weet my waukrife wink« 



W 



girum ■■" spite. 



But by yon moon ! — and that's high 

swearin' — 
And every star within my hearin' ! 
And by her een wha was a dear ane !| 

I'll ne'er forget; 
I hope to gie the jads^- a clearin' 

In fair play yet. 

My loss I mourn, but not repent it, 
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it,^' 
Ance to the Indies I were wonted. 

Some cantrip^'' hour. 
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted. 

Then, Vive V amour! 

Faites mes haisemains respectueuses. 

To sentimental sister Susie, 

And honest Lucky; no to roose^^ ye, 

Ye may be proud, 
That sic a couple Fate allows ye 

To grace your blood. 

Nae mair at present can I measure, 
And trouth my rhymin' ware's na« ^ 
treasure; [leisure, ] 

But when in Ayr, some half hour'f 

Be't light, be't dark. 
Sir Bard will do himsel the pleasure 
To call at Park. 

Robert Bubns. 

MOSSGIEL, Oct. 30, 1786. 



TO THE GUIDWIFE OF WAU- 
CHOPE HOUSE. 

Mrs. Scott of Wauchope, to whom this epistle 
was addressed, was a lady of considerable 
taste and talent, a writer of verse, and 
something of an artist. She was niece to 
Mrs. Cockburn, authoress of a beautiful 
version of " The Flowers of the Forest," 

QUIDWIFE, 

I mind it weel, in early date, [blate,' 
When I was beardless, young, and 
And first could thrash the barn. 



'* Pretty girls. *^ Mad. '^ Sleepy eyelids 
2' Grinning. ^^ Lasses, s^ Lost. 5!4 Witch* 
ing. ^^ Praise. 

» Bashful. 

t An allusion to the unfortunate termination 
ol his courtship with Jean Armour, 



EPISTLES. 



167 



Or baud a yokin' at the pleugh; 
And though forfoughten'^ sair eneugh, 
Yet unco proud to learn: 

When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckon'd was, 
And wi' the lave^ ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing, and clearing, 

The tither stooked raw, 

Wi' claivers and haivers^ 

Wearing the day awa'. 

Even then, a wish, (I mind its power,) 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast — 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake. 
Some usefu' plan or beuk could make. 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside. 
And spared the sjrmbol dear: 
No nation, no station. 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

But still the elements o' sang. 

In formless jumble right and wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain; 
Till on that hairst^ I said before, 
My partner in the merry core. 

She roused the forming strain: 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, ^ 

That lighted up my jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pauky een. 
That gart^ my heart-strings tingle ! 
I fired, inspired. 

At every kindling keek,^ 
But bashing and dashing, 
I feared aye to speak. 

Health to the sex ! ilk guid chieP says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter-days. 

And we to share in common: 
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe. 
The saul o' life, the heaven below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs,'^ who hate the name. 

Be mindfu' o' your mither: 
She, honest woman, may think shame 

That ye're connected with her. 



• Fatig^ued. 3 Rest. * Idle stories and eossip. 
• Harvest « Comely lass- "> Made, » Glance. 

' Fsiiow. '" Plockheads. 



Ye're wae" men, ye're nae men. 
That slight the lovely dears; 

To shame ye, disclaim ye. 
Ilk honest birkie'"^ swears. 

For you, no bred to barn and byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre. 
Thanks to you for your line: 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare 
By me should gratefully be ware;'* 

'Twad please me to the Nine. 
I'd be mair vauntie'^ o' my hap,'^ 

Douce liingin''" owre my curple,*' 
Than ony ermine ever lap. 
Or proud imperial purple. 

Fareweel then, lang heal then. 

And plenty be your fa'j 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan^^ ca*l 



EPISTLE TO WILLIAM CREECH. 

William Creech was the publisher of the first 
Edinburgh edition of the poet's works. He 
was the most celebrated publisher of his 
time in Edinburgh ; and it was his good 
fortune to be the medium through which 
the works of the majority of that band of 
eminent men who made Edinburgh the 
head-quarters of literature during the latter 
half of the eighteenth century, passed to 
the world. This epistle was written during- 
the poet's Border tour, and while Creech 
was in London. 

Auld chuckle' Reekie's'^ sair dlstrest 
Down droops her ance weel-burnisht. 

crest, 
Nae joy her bonny buskit^ nest 

Can yield ava,* 
Her darling bird that she lo'es best, 
Willie's awa'! 

O Willie was a witty wight, ^ 
And had o' things an unco slight;* 
Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight. 
And trig and braw: 
But now they'll busk her like a fright- 
Willie's awa'! 

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd; 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd; 



11 Woeful. 12 Fellow. "Worn. i< Proud. 
IS Covering, i* Bravely hanging, i'' Rumo. 
18 Porch. 

1 Literally a hen. ^ Edinburgh. 9 Decor- 
ated. 4 At all. * FellQW. « A great knovrt 
edge. 



168 



BURNS' WORKS. 



They durst nae mair than he allow'd, 

That was a law 
We've lost a birkie' weel worth gowd — 

Willie's awa' ! 

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, ^ and 

fools, 
Frae colleges and boarding-schools, 
May sprout like simmer puddock'- 
stools 

In glen or shaw; 
B.e wha could brush them down to 
mools'° — 

Willie's awa' ! 

The brethren o' the Commerce- Chau- 
mer* [our; 

May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clam- 
He was a dictionar and grammar 

Amang them a' ; 
I fear they'll now mak mony a stam- 
mer^ ^ — 

Willie's awa' ! 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and poets pour, 
And toothy critics by the score. 

In bloody raw 1 
The adjutant o' a' the core 

Willie's awa'! 

Now worthy Gregory's f Latin face, 
TytlersJ and Greenfield's § modest 

grace, 
Mackenzie,! Stewart,^ sic a brace 

As Rome ne'er saw; 
They a' maun'^ meet some ither place — 

Willie's awa' I 

Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna 

quicken, [en. 

He cheeps^^ like some bewilder'd chick - 

Scared frae its minnie'* and the cleck- 

ini* 

By hoodie- craw. 
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin' — 
Willie's awa ! 

' Fellow. 8 Simpletons, sluts— gowk means 
literally cuckoo, also a fool. » Toad. ^^ The 
dust. " Stumble. ^^ Must. " Chirps. ^* 
Mother, i** Brood. 

* The Chamber of Commerce, of which 
Creech was secretary. 

t Dr. James Gregory. 

t Tytler of Woodhouselee. 

§ Professor of Rhetoric in the University. 

I Henry Mackenzie. 

1 Dugald Stewart. 



Now e^ery sour-mou'd girnin' blel 

lum,i« 
And Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him; 
And self -conceited critic skellum'^ 
His quill may draw; 
He wha could brawlie'"* ward their bel 
lum'^ — 

Willie's awa' ! 

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped» 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, \ 

And Ettrick banks now roaring red. 

While tempests blaw; 
But every joy and pleasure's fled — 

Willie's awa'! 

May I be Slander's common speech; 
A text for Infamy to preach; 
And lastly, streekit-" out to bleach 

In winter snaw. 
When I forget thee, Willie Creech, 

Though far awa' ! 

May never wicked Fortune touzle'^ himl 
May never wicked men bamboozle"^'^ 

him I 
Until a pow'^3 ^s auld's Methusalem 

He canty'^^ claw ! 
Then to the blessed New Jerusalem, 

Fleet wing awa' ! 



EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER. 

Mr. Hugh Parker was a Kilmarnock merchant, 
and an early friend and admirer of the 
poet's. 

In this strange land, this uncouth 

clime, 
A land unknown to prose or rhyme; 
Where words ne'er crost the muse '3 

heckles,* 
Nor limpet' in poetic shackles; 
A land that Prose did never view it, 
Except when drunk he stachert^ 

through it; 
Here, ambusVd by the chimla cheek,' 
Hid in an atmosphere of reek,* 
I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk,' 
I hear it — for in vain I leuk. 



18 Talking fellow, i' A term of contempt. 
^^ Easily. »» Attacks. 20 Stretched. 2» Teazc?. 
22 Bother. 23 Head. 24 Cheerful. 

» Limped. 2 Staggered. ^ Chimney comer. 
* Smoke. ^ Corner. 

* A series of sharp-pointed spikes throuj,'^ 
which flax is drawn m dressing it for macu 
facture, Its application here is obviousi 



EPISTLES. 



The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, 
Enhusked by a fog infernal: 
Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, 
I sit and count my sins by chapters; 
For life and spunk like ither Christians, 
I'm dwindled down to mere existence; 
Wi' nae converse but Qallowa bodies, 
Wi' nae kenn'd face but Jenny Ged- 

des.f 
Jenny, my Pegasean pride ! 
Dowie® she saunters down Nithside, 
And aye a westlin leuk she throws. 
While tears hap"" o'er her auld brown 

nose ! 
Was it for this wi' canny^ care, 
Thou bure the bard through many a 

shire ? 
At howes^ or hillocks never stumbled, 
And late or early never grumbled ? 
Oh, had I power like inclination, 
I'd heeze'^ thee up a constellation, 
To canter with the Sagitarre, 
Or loup the ecliptic like a bar; 
Or turn the pole like any arrow; 
Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-mor- 
row, 
Down the zodiac urge the race, 
And cast dirt on his godship's face; 
For I could lay my bread and kail 
He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail. 
Wi' a' this care and a' this grief. 
And sma,' sma' prospect of relief. 
And nought but peet-reek i' my head, 
How can I write what ye can read ? 
Torbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, 
Ye'll find me in a better tune: 
But till we meet and weet'^ our whistle, 
Tak this excuse for nae epistle. 

Robert Burns. 



FIRST EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, 
ESQ., OF FINTRY. 

Robert Graham of Fintry was a Commis- 
sioner of Excise. 

When Nature her great masterpiece 
design'd, [human mind. 

And framed her last, best work, the 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
6he f orm'd of various parts the various 
man. 

^« Sadly. 7 Hop. 8 Gentle. » Hollows, lo 
^se. 11 Wet. 
t The poet's mare. 



Then first she calls the useful many 

forth; [worth: 

Plain plodding industry and sober 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sona 

of earth, [their birth: 

And merchandise' whole genus take 
Each prudent cit a warm existence 

finds, [kinds. 

And all mechanics' many - apron'd 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet. 
The lead and buoy are needful to the 

net; 
The caput mortuum of gross desires 
Makes a material for mere knights and 

squires, [flow. 

The martial phosphorus is taught to 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic 

dough, [grave designs, 

Then marks th' unyielding mass with 
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines: 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the 

poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood, 
Nature, well- pleased, pronounced it 

very good: 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er. 
Half -jest, she tried one -curious labour 

more. 
Some spumy, fiery i^mV/a^ww* matter, 
Such as the slightest breath of air 

might scatter; 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as 

we, [show it) 

Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to 
She forms the thing, -and christens it — 

a Poet, [and sorrow. 

Creature, though oft the prey of care 
When blest to-day, unmindful of to- 

morrow. 
A being form'd t' amuse his graver 

friends, 
Admired and praised — and there the 

homage ends: 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife. 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches 

give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live: 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal 

each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite aTurk« 



170 



BURNS' WORKS. 



She laugh'd at first, then felt for her 
poor work. [kind, 

Pitying the propless climber of man- 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine 
state, [great, 

Attach'd him to the generous truly 
A title, and the only one I claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on boun- 
teous Graham. 

Pity the tuneful Muses' hapless train. 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy 

main! [stufE, 

Their hearts no selfish stem, absorbent 
That never gives — though humbly 

takes enough; [soon, 

The little fate allows, they share as 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard- 

wrung boon. [depend. 

The world were blest did bliss on them 
Ah, that ''the friendly e'er should 

want a friend!" [son. 

Let prudence number o'er each sturdy 
Who life, and wisdom at one race be- 
gun, [rule. 
Who feel by reason and who give by 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a 

fool!) [should — 

Who make poor will do wait upon I 
We own they're prudent, but who feels 

they're good? [eye! 

Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social 
God's image rudely etch'd on base 

alloy 1 

But come, ye who the godlike, pleasure 
know, [bestow! 

Heaven's attribute distinguish'd — to 
Whose arms of love would grasp the 
human race [tier's grace; 

Come thou who givest with all a cour 
Friend of my life, true patron of my 
rhymes! [times. 

Prop of my dearest hopes for future 
Why shrinks my soul half-blushing, 
half -afraid, [aid ? 

Backward, abash'dtoask thy friendly 
I know my need, I know thy giving 
hand, [mand, 

I crave thy friendship at thy kind com- 
But there are such who court the tune- 
ful Nine — [be mine! 
Heavens! should the branded character 
Whose verse in manhood's pride 
sublimely flows. 



Yet vilest reptiles in their begging 

* prose. 

Mark, how their lofty, independent 

spirit [merit! 

Soars on the spurning wing oi injured 
Seek not the proofs in private life to 

find; [wind! 

Pity the best of words should be but 
So to heaven's gate the lark's shriL 

song ascends, 
But grovelling on the earth the carol 

ends. 

In all the clam'rous cry of starving 

want, [front, 

They dun benevolence with shameless 
Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays. 
They persecute you all your future 

days! [stain, 

Ere my poor soul such deep damnation 
My horny fist assume the plough again. 
The piebald jacket let me patch once 

more; [fore. 

On eighteenpence a week I've lived be- 
Though, thanks to Heaven, Idareeven 

that last shift! [gift, 

I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy 
That, placed by thee upon the wish'd 

for height, [sight. 

Where, man and nature fairer in her 
My Muse may imp her wing for 

sublimer flight. 



EPISTLE TO JAMES TAIT OP 

GLENCONNER. 
AuLD comrade dear, and brither sinner. 
How's a' the folk about Glenconner? 
How do ye this blae eastlin win'. 
That's like to blaw a body blin'? 
For me, my faculties are frozen, 
My dearest member nearly dozen,' 
I've sent you here, by Johnnie Simson, 
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on ! 
Smith, wi' his sjTupathetic feeling, 
And Reid, to common sense appealing. 
Philosophers have fought an wrangled, 
And meikle Greek and Latin mangled, 
Till wi' their logic-jargon tired, 
And in the depth of science mired. 
To common sense they now appeal, 
What wives and wabsters^ see and feel 
But, hark, ye, frien'l I charge yon 
strictly. 



1 Numbed. ^ Weavers. 



EPISTLES. 



171 



Peruse them, and return them quickly. 
For now I'm grown sae cursed douce^ 
I pray and ponder butt the house; 
My shins, my lane,"* I there sit roastin'. 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown and Boston; 
Til by and by, if I hand on, 
I'll grunt a real gospel-groan: . 
Already I begin to try it. 
To cast my een up like a pyet,' 
When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 
Fluttering and gasping in her gore: 
Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning and a shining light. 

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 
The ace and wale^ of honest men: 
When bending down wi' auld gray 

hairs, 
Beneath the load of years and cares. 
May he who made him still support him, 
And views beyond the grave comfort 

him. 
His worthy family, far and near, 
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear ! 

My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie, 
The manly tar, my mason Billie, 
And Auchenbay, I wish him joy; 
If he's a parent, lass or boy. 
May he be dad, and Meg the mither, 
Just five-and-forty years thegither ! 
And no forgetting Wabster Charlie, 
I'm tauld he offers very fairly. 
And, Lord, remember singing Sannock 
Wi' hale-breeks,' saxpence, and a ban- 
nock. ^ [cy, 
And next my auld acquaintance, Nan- 
Since she is fitted to her fancy; 
And her kind stars hae airted' till her 
A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. ^^ 
My kindest, best respects I sen' it. 
To cousin Kate and sister Janet; [tious, 
Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels" be cau- 
For, faith, they'll aiblins^^ fin' them 
fashious;'^ 

To grant a heart is fairly civil. 
But to grant a maidenhead's the devil. 
And lastly, Jamie, for yoursel. 
May guardian angels tak a spell. 
And steer you seven miles south o' hell: 
But first, before you see heaven's glory, 
May ye get mony a merry story, 



Mony a laugh, and mony a drink. 
And aye eneugh o' needfu' clink. '"* 

Now fare ye weel, and joy be wi' you; 
For my sake this I beg it o' you, 
Assist poor Simson a' ye can, 
Ye'll find him just an honest man; 
Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter. 
Yours, saint or sinner, 

Rob the Ranteb. 



3 Serious. * By myself. ^ Magpie. ^ 
Choice. "^ Whole breeches. ^ Oat cake. 
•Directed, lo Some money. " Fello*^. 12 
Perhaps. ^^ Troublesome. 



EPISTLE TO DR. BLACKLOCK, 

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER. 

Dr. Blacklock, the blind poet, had been edu- 
cated for the Church, but in consequence of 
his blindness was disappointed of a charge. 
He kept a boarding-school for young men 
attending college. He was much respected 
by the literati of the town ; but, what is 
more important, it was his letter to Mr. 
Georgie Lawrie of Kilmarnock, the friend 
of Burns, which fired the poet's ambition, 
and induced his visit to Ekiinburgh, and the 
abandonment of his projected departure for 
the West Indies. 

Ellisland, October 21, 1789. 

Wow, but your letter made me vaun- 

tie!» 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie?'^ 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit j auntie 

Wad bring you to: 
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye, 
And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron* south! 
And never drink be near his drouth !' 
He tauld mysel, by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter; 
I lippen'd* to the chiel in trouth^ 

And bade^ nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one 
To ware' his theologic care on. 

And holy study; 
And tired o' sauls to waste his lear^ on, 

E'en tried the body. 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier,^ 
I'm turn'd a gauger^^ — Peace be here ! 

1* Money. 

1 Proud. 2 Cheerful. 3 Thirst. * Trusted: 
5 A petty oath. ® Deserved. "^ Spend. ^ Learn- 
ing. ^ Friend. '^^ Exciseman. 

* " Heron, author of a History of Scotland 
published in 1800 ; and, among various othef 
works, of a respectable life of our poet hiOV' 

self."— CURRIE. 



17S 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Parnassian queans,'' I fear, I fear, 
Ye'llnow disdain me! 

And then my fifty pounds a year 
Will little gain me. 

Ye glaikit,'^gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wlia, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, 
Lowp,'^ sing, and lave your pretty 
limbies. 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang Necessity supreme is, 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 
They maun hae brose and brats o' 
duddies.'* [is 

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud 

I needna vaunt,'* 
But I'll sned besoms'^ thraw saugh 
woodies," 

Before they want. 

Lord, help me through this world o' 

care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air;'^ 
Not but 1 hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers; 
But why should ae man better fare. 

And a' men brithers ? 

Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' cad-hemp in man !f 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair- 
Wha does the utmost that he can. 

Will whiles'* do mair, 

conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 
To make a happy fire-side clime. 

To weans"^^ and wife; 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 



1^ Lasses. ^^ Foolish. ^^ jump. ^* Rags 

o' clothing. ^* Boast. ^^ Cut brooms. ^' 

Twist willow withes, i» Early. 19 Some- 
times. 20 Children. 

t The male hemp— that which bears the 
seed. " Ye have a stalk o' carl-hemp in you," 
is a Scotch remark, and means that a man has 
more stamina in him than ordinary. 



I wat she is a dainty chuckle,^ 
As e'er tread clay ! 

And gratefully, my guid auld cockie§ 
I'm yours for aye. 

Robert Bukns. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO 
ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF . 
FINTRY, * 

ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELEC- 
TION BETWEEN SIR JAMES JOHNSTON 
AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR THE 
DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS. 

FiNTRY, my stay in wordly strife. 
Friend o' my Muse, friend o' my life. 

Are ye as idle's I am ? 
Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg, ' 
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg, 

And ye shall see me try him. 

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig* bears, 
Wha left the all important cares 

Of princes and tlieir darlin's: 
And, bent on winning borough touns. 
Came shaking hands wi' wabster louns, 

And kissing barefit carlins* 

Combustion through our boroughs rode, 
Whistlifig his roaring pack abroad, 

Of mad, unmuzzled lions; 
As Queensberry "buff and blue" 

unfurl'd,* 
And Westerha'f Hopetoun hurl'd 

To every Whig defiance. 

But cautious Queensberry left the war, 
The unmanner'd dust might soil his 
star; 

Besides, he hated bleeding: * 
But left beliind him heroes bright. 
Heroes in Caesarean fight. 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 

J Country kick. ^ Barefooted women. 

t Chuckie— literally, hen. Often used as a 
familiar term of endearment in speaking of a 
female. 

§ Cockie— literally, cock. Used in the same 
way as chuckie. 

* The fourth Duke of Queensberry, of in» * 
famous memory. 

t Sir James Johnston, the Tory candidaU. 



EPISTLES. 



m 



Oh, for a throat like huge Mons-Meg, 
To muster o'er each ardent Whig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banners, 
Heroes and heroines commix, 
.All in the field of politics. 

To win immortal honours. 

M'Murdol and his lovely spouse 

(Th' enamour'd laurels Mss her brows !) 

Led on the Loves and Graces: 
She won each gaping burgess' heart. 
While he, all conquering, play'd his 
part 

Amang their wives and lasses. 

Craigdarroch§ led a light-arm'd corps; 
Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour, 

Lilce Hecla streaming thunder: 
Glenriddel, || skill'd in rusty coins. 
Blew up each Tory's dark designs, 

And bared the treason under. 

In either wing two champions fought. 
Redoubted Staig,T[ who set at nought 

The wildest savage Tory; 
And Welsh,** who ne'er yet flinch'd 

his ground. 
High- waved his magnum-bonum round 

With Cyclopean fury. 

Miller brought up the artillery ranks. 
The many-pounders of the Banks, 

Resistless desolation ! 
While Maxwelton, that baron bold. 
Mid Lawson'sff port entrench'd his 
hold. 

And threaten'd worse damnation. 

To these, what Tory hosts opposed; 
With these, what Tory warriors closed. 

Surpasses my discriving: 
Squadrons extended long and large, 
With furious speed rush'd to the 
charge, 

Like raging devils driving. 

What verse can sing, what pros© 
narrate, 

t Chamberlain of the Duke of Queensberry 
at Drumlanrig, and a friend of the poet's. 

§ Fergusson of Craigdarroch. 

II Captain Riddel of Glenriddel, anothei 
friend of the poet's. 

^ Provost Staig of Dumfries. 

♦* Sheriff Welsh. 

+t A wine mercbajit in Dumfries. 



The butcher deeds of bloody Fate 
Amid this mighty tulzie !' 

Grim Horror grinu'd — pale Terroi 
roar'd. 

As Murther at his thrapple shored,* 

And Hell mix'd in the brulzie P 

As Highland crags by thunder cleft, 
When lightnings fire the stormy Mft^ 

Hurl down wi' crashing rattle 
As flames amang a hundred woods; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods; 

Such is the rage of battle! 

The stubborn Tories dare to die; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly 

Before th' approaching fellers: 
The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar^ 
When all his wintry billows pour 

Against the Buchan Bullers.:j::j: 

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep 

night, 
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight. 

And think on former daring: 
The muflied murtherer of Charles §§ 
The Magna- Charta flag unfurls. 

All deadly gules its bearing. 

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame. 
Bold Scrirageour || || follows gallant 
Grahame,^!" 

Auld Covenanters shiver. 
(Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd M<>n- 

trose! 
While death and hell ingulf thy foes, 
Thou liv'st on high forever!) 

Still o'er the field the combat burns, 
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns: 

But Fate the word has spoken; 
For woman's wit and strength o' man, T 
Alas! can do bat what they can — j 

The Tory ranks are broken! 

Oh that my een were flowing bums! 



'Conflict. * Threatened. ^ Broil. 6 pir. 
mament. 

tX The " Bullers of Buchan" is an appella- 
tion given to a tremendous rocky recess on 
the Aberdeenshire coast, near Peterhead — 
having an opening to the sea, while the top is 
open. The sea, constantly raging in it, gives 
it the appearance of a pot or boiler, and hence 
the name. 

§§ The executioner of Charles I, was 
masked. 

Ill John Earl of Dundee. 

*i^ The great Marquis of Montrose. 



174 



BURNS' WORKS. 



My voice a lioness that mourns 

Her darling cub's undoing! 
That I might greet, that 1 might cry. 
While Tories fall, while Tories fly. 
And furious Whigs pursuing! 

What Whig but wails the good Sir 
!i James ? 

Dear to his country by the names 

Friend, patron, benefactor! 

Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney 

save, [brave ! 

And Hopetoun falls, the generous 

And Stewart,*** bold as Hector. 

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow, 
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe: 

And Melville melt in wailing! 
Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice! 
And Burke shall sing, " O Prince arise! 

Thy power is all prevailing." 

For your poor friend, the bard afar 
He hears, and only hears, the war, 

A cool spectator purely ; 
So when the storm the forest rends, 
The robin in the hedge descends, 

And sober chiros securely. 

Additionax verse m Close oum MS. — 
Now for my friends' and brethren's 



And for my dear-loved Land o' Cakes, 

1 pray with holy fire : 
Lord, send a rough-shod troop o' hell, 
O'er a' wad Scotland buy or sell. 

To grind them in the mire 



THIRD EPISTLE TO ROBERT 
GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY 

Late crippled of an arm, and now a 

leg,* 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg 
Pull, listless, teased, dejected, and 

deprest, 

*** Stewart of Hillside. 

* Burns wrote to Mrs. Dunlop, on the 7th of 
February, 17Q1, " that, by a fall, not from my 
horse, but with my horse, I have been a 
cripple for some time, and this is the first day 
my arm and hand have been able to serve me 
in wnting," 



(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest,) 
Will generous Graham list to hi3 

poet's wail ? [her tale,) 

(It soothes poor Misery, heark'ning to 
And hear him curse the light he first 

survey 'd, [trade! 

And doubly curse the luckless rhyming 

Thou, Nature ! partial Nature 1 I 

arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have 

found. 
One shakes the forests, and one spurns 

the ground- 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail 

his shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards 

his cell; 
Thy minions, kingS; defend, control, 

devour, [power; 

In all th' omnipotence of rule and 
Foxes and statesmen subtle wiles 

insure; [secure, 

The cit and polecat stink, and are 
Toads with their poison, doctors with 

their drug. 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes 

are snug; 
Even silly woman has her warlike arts, 
Her tongue and eyes — her dreaded 

spear and darts. [hard, 

But, oh ! thou bitter stepmother and 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — 

the bard ! 
A thing unteachable in wordly skill, 
And half an idiot, too, more helpless 

still; [dun. 

No heels to bear him from the opening 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to 

shun; fworn, 

No horns, but those by luckless Hymen 
And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn: 
No nerves* olfactory, Mammon's trusty 

cur, [fur; — 

Clad in rich Dullness' comfortable 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride. 
He bears the unbroken blast from 

every side [heart, 

Vampire booksellers drain him to the 
And scorpion critics curseless venom 

dart. 

Critics ! — appall'd I venture on the 

name, [of fame: 

Those cut-throat bandits in the paths 



EPISTLES. 



1*?5 



Blood/ dissectors, worse than ten 

Monroes If [expose. 

He hacks to teach, they mangle to 

His heart by causeless wanton malice 

wrung, [stung: 

By blockheads' daring into madness 
His well-won bays, than life itself 

more dear, [sprig must wear: 

By miscreants torn, who ne'er one 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortured, in the 

unequal strife, [life; 

The hapless poet flounders on through 
Till, fled each hope that once his bosom 

fired, [inspired. 

And tied each muse that glorious once 
Low sunk in squalid unprotected age. 
Dead, even reseiitment, for his injured 

page, [less critic's rage. 

He heeds or feels no more the rutli- 
So, by some hedge, the generous steed 

deceased, [feast. 

For half -starved snarling curs a dainty 
By toil and famine worn to skin and 

bone, [son. 

Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's 

Dullness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm'd shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce 

extremes 
Of Fortune's polar f rost,or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden 

cup, 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up: 
Conscious the bounteous meed they 

well deserve, [jiot starve. 

They only wonder "some folks" do 
The grave sage hern thus easy picks 

his frog, [less dog. 

And thinks the mallard a sad worth- 
When disappointment snaps the clue 

of Hope, [darkling grope. 

And through disastrous night they 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they 

bear, [fortune's care." 

And just conclude that "fools are 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's 

shocks, [stupid ox. 

Strong on the sign-post stands the 



t The allusion here is to Alexander Munro, 
the distinguished Professor of Anatomy in 
the University of Edinburgh in Burns' day. 



Not so the idle Muse's mad-cap train, 
Not such the workings of their moon- 
struck brain ! 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring heaven or vaulted 
hell. 

I dread thee. Fate, relentless and 

severe, [fear 1 

With all a poet's, husband's, father's 
Already one stronghold of hope is lost — 
Glencairn. the truly noble, lies in dust; 
(Fled, like the sun eclipsed as noon 

appears, tears :) 

And left us darkling in a world of 
Oh ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish 

prayer !— [spare ! 

Fintry, my other stay, long bless and 
Through a long life his hopes and 

wishes crown, [go down ! 

And bright in cloudless skies his sun 
May bliss domestic smooth his private 

path, [latest breath. 

Give energy to life, and soothe his 
With many a filial tear circling the bed 

of death ! 



FOURTH EPISTLE TO ROBERT 
GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRl. 

The foUowingr verses were written in ac- 
knowledgment of the favour the previous 
epistle prayed for. 

I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that 
feigns; [burns. 

Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new. 
The gift still dearer, as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other pale 
light ! [night, 

And all ye many sparkling stars of 

If aught that giver from my mind 
efface; 

If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace; 

Then roll to me along your wandering 
spheres, 

Only to number out a villain's years ! 



EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS, ETC. 



THOUGH FICKLE FORTUNE HAS 
DECEIVED ME. 

*' The following," says Burns, "was written 
extempore, under the pressure of a heavy 
train of misfortunes, which, indeed, threat- 
ened to undo me altogether. It was just at 
the close of that dreadful period mentioned 
already (in Commonplace-book, March, 
1784) ; and though the weather has bright- 
ened up a little with me since, yet there has 
always been a tempest brewing round me 
in the grim sky of futurity, which I pretty 
plainly see will, some time or other, per- 
haps ere long, overwhelm me, and drive" me 
into some doleful dell, to pine in solitary, 
squalid wretchedness." 

Though fickle Fortune has deceived 
me, [ill ; 

She promised fair and perf orm'd but 
Of mistress, friends, and wealth be- 
reaved me, [still. 
Yet I bear a heart shall support me 

I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able. 
But if success I must never find, 

Then come. Misfortune, I bid thee wel- 
come, [mind. 
I'll meet thee with an undaunted 



ON JOHN DOVE, INNKEEPER, 
MAUCHLINE. 

Here lies Johnny Pigeon; 
What was his religion ? 

Whae'er desires to ken,^ 
To some other warP 
Maun follow the carl,' 

For here Johnny Pigeon had uane! 



» Know. 2 Old man. 



Strong ale was ablution- 
Small beer persecution, 

A dram was memento mori; 
But a full flowing bowl 
Was the saving his soul, 

And port was celestial glory. 



TO A PAINTER. 

While in Edinburgh, the poet paid a visit to 
the studio of a well-known painter, whom 
he found at work on a picture of Jacob's 
Dream ; and having looked at the sketch foi 
a little, he wrote the following verses on 
the back of it :— 

Dear , I'll gie ye some advice, 

You'll tak it no uncivil: 
You shouldna paint at angels mair. 

But try to paint the devil. 

To paint an angel's kittle wark, 
Wi' auld Nick there's less danger; 

You'll easy draw a weel-kent face. 
But no sae weel a stranger. 

R. B. 



EPITAPH ON THE AUTHOR'S 
FATHER. 

The following lines were inscribed on a smaB 
headstone erected over the grave of the 
poet's father, in Alloway Kirkyard : — 

O YE whose clieek the tear of pity 
stains; [attend! 

Draw near with pious reverence, and 
Here lie the loving husband's dear re- 
mains, [friend; 
The tender father, and the generou* 



EPIGHAMS, EPITAPHS, Etc. 



m 



The pitying heart that felt for human 
I woe; [human pride; 

! The dauntless heart tliat fear'd no 

I The friend of man, to vice alone a foe: 
i * For even his failings lean'd to vir- 

tue's side."* 



guid 



A FAREWELL. 

fhese lines form the conclusion of a letter 
from Burns to Mr. John Kennedy, dated 
Kilmarnock, August, 1786. 

Farewell, dear friend! may 

luck hit you, 
And, 'mang her favourites admit you \ 
If e'er Detraction shone to smite you, 

May nane believe him! 
And ouy dell that thinks to get you. 
Good Lord deceive him. 



ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. 

The wag here meant was James Smith, the 
tames Smith of the epistle commencing 
" Dear Smith, the sleest, pawkie thief." 

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', 

He aften did assist ye; 
For had ye staid whole years awa', 

Your wives they ne'er had miss'd ye. 
Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass 

To school in bands thegither. 
Oh, tread ye lightly on his grass — 

Perhaps he was your father. 



POETICAL REPLY TO AN INVI- 
TATION. 

MOSSGIEL, 1786. 

Sib, 
' yours this moment I unseal, 

And faith, I am gay and hearty! 
To tell the truth and shame the deil, 
I am as fou as Bartie;f 

"Put foorsday, sir, my promise leal, 
^ Expect me o' your party, 
If on a beastie I can speel, 
Or hurl in a cartie. — R. B. 



TO A YOUNG LADY IN A 
CHURCH. 
During^ the poet's Border tour, he went to 
church one Sunday, accompanied by Miss 



-' Goldsmith, 
t A proverbial saying, which may be inter- 
Dreted by a line of an old song :— 

" I'm no just fou» but I'm gayley yet." 



Ainslie, the sister of his traveling compan- 
ion. The text for the day happened to con- 
tain a severe denunciation of obstinate sin- 
ners : and Burns, observing the young lady 
intently turning over the leaves of her Bible 
in search of the passage, took out a small 

{)iece of paper, and wrote the following 
ines upott it, which he immediately passed 
to her :— 

Faib maid, you need not take the hint. 

Nor idle texts pursue; 
'Twas guilty sinners that he meant, 

Not angels such as you 1 



VERSES 

WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF 
FERGUSSON, THE POFT, IN A COPY OF 
THAT author's T. ^..u S PRESENTED 
TO A YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, 
MARCH, 17, 1787. 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be 
pleased, [pleasure 1 

And yet can starve the author of the 
thou, my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my elder brother in the Muses, 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why IS the bard unpitied by the world. 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures! 



ON THE ILLNESS OF A FAVOUR. 

ITE CHILD. 
Now health forsakes that angel face, 

Nae mair my dearie smiles; 
Pale sickness withers ilka grace. 

And a' my hopes beguiles. 

The cruel Powers reject the prayer 

I hourly mak for thee 1 
Ye heavens, how great is my despair, 

How can I see him die I 



EXTEMPORE ON TWO LAWYERS. 

During Burns' first sojourn in Edinburgh, in 
1787, he paid a visit to the Parliament 
House, and the result was two well-drawn 
sketches of the leading counsel of the day— 
the Lord Advocate, Mr. Hay Campbell^ 
(afterwards Lord President), and the Deaa 
of Faculty, Harry Erskine. 

LORD ADVOCATE. 

He clench'd his pamphlets in hisfist^ 
He quoted and he hinted. 



178 



BtJRNS' WORKS. 



/ 



Till in a declamation mist 
His argument he tint' it; 

He gaped for 't, he graped' for 't, 
He found it was awa', man; 

But what his common sense cam short, 
He eked out wi' law, man. 

DEAN OF FACULTY. 

Collected Harry stood a wee, 

Then open'd out his arm, man; 
His lordship sat wi' ruef u' ee, 

And eyed the gathering storm, man: 
Like wind-driven hail, it did assail. 

Or torrents owre a linn, man ; 
The Bench sae wise, lift up their eyes, 

Half-waken'd wi' the din, man. 



THE HIGHLAND WELCOME. 

When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 
A time that surely shall come; 

In heaven itself I'll ask no more 
Than just a Highland welcome. 



EXTEMPORE ON WILLIAM 
SMELLIE, 

AUTHOR OF THE "PHILOSOPHY OF 
NATURAL HISTORY," AND MEMBER 
OF THE ANTIQUARIAN AND ROYAL 
SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH. 

Smellie belonged to a club called the Crochal- 
lan Fencibles, of which Burns was a mem- 
ber. 

Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan 
came, [the same; 

The old cock'd hat, the gray surtont, 
His bristling beard just rising in Its 
might, [shaving night; 

Twas four long nights and days to 
His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild star- 
ing, thatch'd [unmatch'd; 
A head for thought profound and clear 
Yet though his caustic wit was biting, 
rude, [good. 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and 

»Lost. a Groped. 



VEKSES WRITTEN ON A 

WINDOW OF THE INK 

AT CARRON. 

The following lines were written on being 
refused admittance to the Carron iroa* 
works : — 

We cam na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise, 
But only lest we gang to hell. 

It may be nae surprise: 

But when we tirled at your door, 
Your porter dought na hear us; 

Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come 
Your billy Satan sair us ! 



LINES ON VIEWING STIRLING 
PALACE. 

The following lines were scratched with a 
diamond on a pane of glass in a window of 
the Inn at which Burns put up, on the occa- 
sion of his first visit to Stirling. They were 
quoted to his prejudice at the time, and no 
doubt did him no good with those who 
could best serve his interests. On his next 
visit to Stirling, he smashed the pane with 
the butt-end of his riding whip : — 

Here Stuarts once in glory reign'd. 
And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd; 
But now unroof 'd 'their palace stands. 
Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands; 
The injured Stuart line is gone, 
A race outlandish fills their throne — 
An idiot race, to honour lost: [most. 
Who know them best despise them. 

THE REPROOF. 

Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy 
name [ot famej 

Shall no longer appear in the records 

Dost not know, that old Mansfield, 
who writes like the Bible, 

Says, The more 'tis a truth, sir, tha 
more 'tis a libel ? 



LINES 

WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF THl 
CELEBRATED MISS BLTINS. 

Cease, ye prudes, your envious raiung. 
Lovely Burns has charms — confess. 

True it is, she had one failing — 
Had. a woman ever less ? 



EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS, Etc. 



17« 



ON INCIVILITY SHOWN TO HIM 
AT INVERARY. 

The poet having halted at Inverary during 
his first Highland tour, put up at the inn : 
but on finding himself neglected by the 
landlord, whose house was filled with visit- 
ors to the Duke of Argyle, he resented the 
incivility in the following lines :— 

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, 

I pity much his case, 
Unless he come to wait upon 

The lord their god, his Grace. 

There's nathing here but Highland 
pride, 

And Highland cauld and hunger; 
If Providence has sent me here, 

'Twas surely in His anger. 



ON A SCHOOLMASTER. 

Here lie Willie Michie's banes; 

O Satan, when ye tak him, 
Gie him the schoolin' o' your weans. 

For clever deils he '11 mak 'em 1 



VERSES 

ADDRESSED TO THE LANDLADY OF THE 
INN AT ROSSLYN. 

My blessings on you, sonsie wife; 

I ne'er was here before; [knife, 

You've gien us walth for horn and 

Nae heart could wish for more. 

Heaven keep you free frae care and 
strife, 

Till far ayont fourscore; 
And, while I toddle on through life, 

I'll ne'er gang by your door. 



INNOCENCE. 

Innocence 
Looks gayly-smiling on; while rosy 

Pleasure [wreath, 

Hides young Desire amid her flowery 
And pours her cup luxuriant; mantling 

high [and Bliss ! 

The sparkling hejvvenly vintage — Love 



ON ELPHINSTONE'S TRANSLA- 
TION OF MARTIAL'S " EPI- 
GRAMS." 

" Stopping at a merchant's shop in Edin- 
burgh," says Burns. " a friend of mine one 
day put Elphinstone s translation of Martial 
into my hand, and desired my opinion of it. 
I asked permission to write my opinion on a 
blank leaf of the book ; which being grant' 
ed, I wrote this epigram :" — 

O Thou, whom Poesy abhors ! 
Whom Prose has turned out of doois I 
Heard'st thou that groan ?— proceed no 
further— [ther!" 

'Twas laurell'd Martial roaring, " Mur- 



LINES 



WRITTEN ON A PANE OP GLASS IN 
THE INN AT MOFFAT. 

While Bums was in the inn at Moffat one 
day, the " charming, lovely Davies" of one 
of his songs happened to pass, accompanied 
by a tall and portly lady : and on a friend 
asking him why God had made Miss Davies 
so small and the other lady so large, he re- 
plied : — 

Ask why God made the gem so small, 
And why so huge the granite ? 

Because God meant mankind should set 
The higher value on it. 



LINES 

SPOKEN EXTEMPORE ON BEING AP- 
POINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

Searching auld wives' barrels, 
Och, hon ! the day ! [laurels; 

That clarty barm should stain my 
But — what'll ye say ? [weans 

These movin' things ca'd wives and 
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes! 



EPITAPH ON W . 

Stop, thief! Dame Nature cried to 

Death, 
As Willie drew his latest breath; 
You have my choicest model ta'en. 
How shall I make a fool again ? 



ON A PERSON NICKNAMED THE 
MARQUIS. 

The person who bore this name was the Ian* 



190 



BURNS* WORKS. 



lord of a tavern in Damfries frequented by 
Boms. In a nx>inent of weakness he asked 
tbe poet to write his epitaph, which he im- 
memafielj did. in a style not at all to tbe 
taste of the Marquis. 

Here lies a mock Ifarqius, whose 

titles were shamm'd; 
If ever he rise — ^it will be to be damn'd. 



TO JOHN MTIURDO, ESQ. 

lolm ynHvudo was steward to the Duke 
of QueendKiTy, and toe faithful frieiKl of 
Bams doring^ the whole period of his resi- 
dence m Nimsdale. 

Oh could I give thee India's wealth 

As I this trifle send ! 
Becaose thv joy in both wonld be 

To share* them with a friend. 

Bat golden sands did never grace 

The Heliconian stream; 
Thai take what gold could never buj — 

Ad. hanest bard's ei>teem. 



TO THE SAME. 

'Blest be M'Murdo to his latest dav ! 
No envious cloud o'ercast his evening 

ray; [Care, 

No wrinkle furrow'd bv the hand of 
Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair ! 
Oh, may no son the fathers honour 

stain, [pain ! 

Nor ever daughter give the mother 



ON CAPTAIN FRANaS GROSE. 

f)oe night at table, when tbe wine had circu- 
lated pretty freely, and 

** Tbe mirth and fan grew fast and 



C^cain Grose, it is said, amtised with the 
sallies of the poet, requested a couplet on 
himself. Having eyed the corpulent anti- 
quary for a little, Uoms repeated tbe follow- 
ing:— 

The devil got notice that Grose was 

a-dying, [came flying; 

So whip at the summons old Satan 

But when he approach'd where poor 

Francis lay moaning, [a-^Toanino-, 

And saw each bedpost with its burden 

A-stonish'd, confounded, cried Satan, 

'By God! [nableload!" 

Ill want Im, ere I take such a dam- 



ON GRIZZEL GRIM. 

lies with Death auld Giizzd 
Grim, 
Lincluden's ugly wit«h; 
O Death, how horrid is thy taste 
To lie with such a bitch ! 



ON MR BURTON. 

Bums having on one occasion met a young 
Englishman of the name of Burton, he be- 
came very importunate that the poet should 
compose 'an epitaph for him. In vaia," 
says Cunningham, " the bard objected 
that he was not sufficiently acquainted with 
his character and habits to qualify him for 
the task ; the request was constantly repeat- 
ed with a " Dem my eyes. Bums, do write 
an epitaph for me ; oh' dem my blood, do. 
Bums, write an epitaph for me."' Over- 
come by his importunity. Bums at last took 
out his pencil and produced the follow- 
ing: — 

Here cursing, swearing Burton lies, 
A buck, a beau, or Dem my eyes ! 
Who in his life did little good ; [blood 1 
And his last words were — Dem my 



POETICAL REPLY TO AN INVITA- 
TION. 
The king's most humble servant, I 

Can scarcely spare a minute; 
But 111 be wi' you by and by. 

Or else the devil's in it. 



TO THE EDITOR OF THE STAB. 

" Bums at one period," says Cunningham, 
**was in the habit of receiving the Siar 
new^nper gratuitously ; but as it came 
somewhat irregularly to band, he sent the 
following lines to head-quarters, to i 
: punctuality :" — 



Dear Peter, dear Peter, 

We poor sons of metre. 
Are often negleckit, ye ken; 

For instance, your sheet, 

(Though glad I'm to .see't, man,) 
I get it no ae day in ten. 



ON BURVS' HORSE BEING UL 

POUNDED. 
Was e'er puir poet sae befitted, [ted t 
The maister drank — the horse commit* 



EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS. Bm 



Puir harmlembeasl ! tak tliee nae care, 
Thou'lt be a horse Avlien he's nae mair 

LINES 

8EMT TO A GENTLEMAN "WHOM HE HAD 
OFFENDED. 

The friend wliom wild from wisdom's 
way 
The fumes of wine infuriate send; 
(Not moony madness more astray;) 
Who but deplores that hapless 
friend? 

Mine was the insensate frenzied part ! 

Ah I why should I such scenes out- 
live ! 
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart 1 

'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



VERSES TO JOHN RANKINE, 

ON HIS WRITING TO THE POET THAT A 
GIRL IN THAT PART OF THE COUNTRY 
WAS WITH CHILD BY HIM. 

I AM a keeper of the law 

In some sma' points, although not a': 

Some people tell me gin I fa', 

Ae way or ither, 
The breaking of ae point, though sma', 

Breaks a' thegither. 

I hae been in for't ance or twice. 

And winna say o'er far for thrice, 

Yet never met with that surprise 

That broke my rest, 

^ But now a rumour's like to rise, 

K A whaup's i' the nest. 

ON SEEING MISS FONTENELLE 
IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER. 

Sweet naivete of feature. 
Simple, wild, enchanting elf. 

Not to thee, but thanks to Nature, 
Thou art acting but thyself. 

-Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, 
Spurning nature, torturing art; 
Loves and graces all rejected, 
: Then indeed thou'dst act a part. 



ON GABRIEL EICHARDSON, 
BREWER, DUMFRIES. 

Here brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct, " 
And empty all his barrels: 

He's blest — if, as hebrew'd, he drink- 
In upright honest morals. 



THE BLACK-HEADED EAGLE: 

A FRAGMENT ON THE DEFEAT OF THU 
AUSTRIANS BY DUMOURIER, AT GEM- 
APPE, NOVEMBER, 1793. 

The black-headed eagle. 

As keen as a beagle, 
He hunted owre height and owre howe; 

But fell in a trap 

On the braes of Gemappe, 
E'en let him come out as he dowe. 



ON A SHEEP'S-HEAD. 

Having been dining at the Globe Tavern, 
Dumfries, on one occasion when a sheep's- 
head happened to be the fare provided, he 
was asked to give something new as a 
grace, and instantly replied :— 

O Lord, when hunger pinches sore, 
Do Thou stand us in stead. 

And send us from Thy bounteous store 
A tup or wether head ! — Amen. 

After having dined, and greatly enjoyed this 
dainty, he was again asked to return thanks, 
when, without a moment's premeditation, 
he at once said : — 

O Lord, since we have feasted thus. 

Which we so little merit, 
Let Meg now take away the flesh, 

And Jock bring in the spirit! — Amen. 



ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG 
NAMED ECHO. 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng. 

Your heavy loss deplore; 
Now half- extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring, screeching things around, 
Scream your discordant joys; 

Now half your din of tuneless sound 
Witb Echo silent lies. 



188 



BTTRNS' WORKa 



ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL 

SEAT OF LORD GALLOWAY. 

This and the three following verses were 
written as political squibs during the heat 
of a contested election : — 

What dost thou in that mansion f air?— 

Flit, Galloway, and find 
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave. 

The picture of thy mind I 



ON THE SAME. 

No Stewart art thou, Galloway, 
The Stewarts all were brave; 

Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, 
Not one of them a knave. 



ON THE SAME. 

Bright ran thy line, O Galloway, 
Through many a far-famed sire 1 

S» ran the far-famed Roman way. 
So ended — in a mire 1 



TO THE SAME. 

ON THE author's BEING THREATENED 
WITH HIS RESENTMENT. 

Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway, 

In quiet let me live: 
I ask no kindness at thy hand. 

For thou hast none to give. 



HOWLET FACE. 

One of the Lords of Justiciary, says a corre- 
spondent of Mr. Chambers', while on circuit 
at Dumfries, had dined one day at Mr. Mil- 
ler's of Dalswinton ; and having, according 
to the custom of the time, taken wine to 
such an extent as to affect his sight, said to 
his host, on entering the drawing-room, and 
at the same time pointing to one of his 
daughters, who was thouefhtan uncommon- 
ly handsome woman, " Wha's you howlet- 
f'aced thing in the corner?" The circum- 
stance having been related to Burns, who 
happened to dine there next day, he took 
out his pencil and wrote the following lines, 
which ae handed to Miss Miller; — 

How daur ye ca* me howlet-faced. 
Ye ugly glowering spectre ? 

My face was but the keekin' glass, 
And there ye saw your picture I 



THE BOOK- WORMS. 

Having been shown into a magnificent library, 
while on a visit to a nobleman, and observ- 
ing a splendidly-bound, but uncut and 
worm-eaten, copy of Shakespeare on the 
table, the poet left the following lines it 
the volume : — 

Through and through the inspin 
leaves, 

Ye maggots, make your windings; 
But, oh, respect his lordship's taste. 

And spare the golden bindings! 



EPIGRAM ON BACON. 

Brownhill was a posting station some fiftee 
miles from Dumfries. Dining there on on^ 
occasion, the poet met a Mr. Ladyman, { 
commercial traveller, who solicited a samplj 
of his " rhyming ware." At dinner, bean 
and bacon were served, and the landlor 
whose name wa--. Eacon, had, as was hj 
wont, thrust himself somewhat offensive!; 
into the company of his guests. 

At Brownhill we always get daint; 

good cheer, [year 

And plenty of bacon each day in th( 
We've all things that's neat, and mostl; 

in season, [me a reason 

But why always Bacon V — come, giv< 



THE EPITAPH. 

In this stinging epitaph Burns satirizes Mr 
Riddel of Woodley Park. He had take 
offence because she seemed to pay more a 
tention to officers in the company than 1 
the poet, who had a supreme contempt fc 
"epaule-ted puppies," as he delighted 
call them. 

Here lies, now a prey to insultii 
neglect, [life's beam 

Wliat once was a butterfly, gay 
Want only of wisdom denied her r€ 
spect, [est 

Want only of goodness denied h( 



ON MRS. KEMBLE. 

The poet having witnessed the performanc 
of Mrs. Kemble in the part of Yarico, on 
night at the Dumfries theatre, seized a piec 
of paper, wrote these lines with a penci 
and handed them to the lady at the conclt 
sion of the performance :— 

Kemble, thou curst my unbelief 

Of Moses and his rod; 
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief 

The rock with tears had flow*d. 



EPIGHAMS, EPITAPHS, ETC. 



THE CREED OF POVERTY. 

" When the Board of Excise," says Cunning- 
nam, " informed Burns that his business 
was to act, and not think, he read the order 
to a friend, turned the paper, and wrote as 
follows:"— 

In politics if thou wouldst mix. 

And mean tliy fortunes be; 
Bear this in mind — * ' Be deaf and blind; 

Let great folks bear and see. " 



WRITTEN IN A LADY'S POCKET- 
BOOK. 

The following lines indicate how strongly 
Burns sympathized with the lovers of lib- 
erty during the first outbreak of the French 
Revolution : — 

Grant me, indulgent Heaven, tliat I 
may live [give; 

To see the miscreants feel the pain they 

Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free 
as air, [which were. 

Till slave and despot be but things 



THE PARSON'S LOOKS. 

Some one having remarked that he saw false- 
hood in the very look of a certain reverend 
gentleman, the poet replied :— 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny ; 
They say their master is a knave — 

And sure they do not lie. 



EXTEMPORE, 

PINNED TO A lady's COACH. 

If you rattle along like your mistress's 
tongue, 
Your speed will outrival the dart; 
But a fly for your load, you'll break 
down on the road, 
If your stuff be as rotten's her heart. 



ON ROBERT RIDDEL. 

The poet traced these lines with a diamond 
on the window of the hermitage of Friars' 
Carse, the first time he visited it after the 
death of his friend the Laird of Carse. 

To Riddel, much-lamented man, 

This ivied cot was dear; 
Reader , dost value matchless worth ? 

TMs ivied cot revere. 



ON EXCISEMEN. 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW IN DUMFRIEa 

" One day," says Cunningham, " while in thft 
King's Arms Tavern, Dumfries, Burns 
overheard a country gentleman talking dis- 
paragingly concernmg excisemen. The poet 
went to a window, and on one of the panes 
wrote this rebuke with his diamond : — 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all 

this sneering [a hearing; 

'Gainst poor excisemen ? give the cause 
What are poor landlords' rent-rolls? 

taxing ledgers; 
What premiers — what? even mon- 

archs' mighty gangers: 
Nay, what are priests, those seeming 

godly wise men ? [cise men 1 

What are they, pray, but spiritual ex- 



VERSES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE GLOBE 
TAVERN, DUMFRIES. 

The graybeard, old Wisdom, may 
boast of his treasures, 
Give me with gay Folly to live ; 
I grant him calm- blooded, time-settled 
pleasures, 
But Folly has rapture to give. 



THE SELKIRK GRACE. 

The poet having been on a visit to the Earl of 
Selkirk at St. Mary's Isle, was asked to say 
grace at dinner. He repeated the following 
words, which have since been known in the 
district as "■ The Selkirk Grace :" — 

Some hae meat, and canna eat, 
And some wad eat that want it; 

But we hae meat, and we can eat 
And sae the Lord be thankit. 



EPITAPH ON A SUICIDE. 

Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell. 
Planted by Satan's dibble — 

Poor silly wretch he's damn'd himsel 
To save the Lord the trouble. 



TO DR. MAXWELL, 

on miss JESSIE STAIG'S RECOVERY. 

'How do you like the following epigram," 
says the poet, in a letter to Thomson, 
" which I wrote the other day on a lovely 
Y Q^"g girl's recovery from a fever ? Doctot 



184 



BtTHNS' WORKS. 



Maxwell Tvas the physician who seemingly 
saved her from the grave ; and to him I 
address the following :"— 

Maxwell, if merit liere you crave, 

That merit I deny; 
Ton save fair Jessie from the grave ? — 

An angel could not die. 



THE PARVENU. 

Burns being present in a company where an 
ill-educated /arvenuwas boring every one 
by boasting of the many great people he 
had lately been visiting, gave vent to his 
feelings m the following lines : — 

No more of your titled acquaintances 

boast, [been ; 

And in what lordly circles you've 

An insect is still but an insect at most, 

Though it crawl on the head of a 

queen 1 



POETICAL INSCRIPTION 

FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE. 

The following lines were inscribed on an altar 
erected at the seat of Heron of Kerrough- 
tree. They were written in 1795, when the 
hopes and triumphs of the French Revolu- 
tion had made it a fashion to raise altars to 
Freedom, and plant trees to Liberty. 

Thou of an independent mind. 

With soul resolved, with soul resign'd; 

Prepared power's proudest frown to 

brave, 
Wlio wilt not be, nor have, a slave; 
Virtue alone who dost revere. 
Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 
Approach this shrine, and worship 
. here. 



EXTEMPORE TO MR. SYME, 

ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM 

Dec. 17, 1795. 

Ko more of your guests, be they titled 
or not. 
And cookery the first in the nation; 
Who is proof to thy personal converse 
and wit 
la proof to aU other temptation. 



TO MR. SYME, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF 
PORTER. 

Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 
Oh, had the malt thy strength of mind» 

Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 
'Twere drink for first of humankind, 

A gift that e'en for Syme were fit. 



INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET. 

There's death in the cup — sae beware' 
Nay, more — there is danger in touch 
ing; 
But wha can avoid the fell snare ? 
The man and his wine's sae bewitch- 
ing! 



THE TOAST. 

Burns having been called on for a song at a 
dinner given by the Dumfries Volunteers 
in honour of the anniversary of Rodney's 
great victory of the 12th of April, 1782, gave 
the following lines in reply to the call : — 

Instead of a scfeg, boys, I'll give yoii 

a toast — 
Here's the memory of those on the 

twelftli that we lost! — 
That we lost, did I say? nay, by 

Heaven, that we found; 
For their fame it shall last while the 

world goes round. 

The next in succession, I'll give you — 

The King! [may he swing! 

Whoe'er would betray him, on high 
And here's the grand fabric, Our free 

Constitution, [olution; 

As built on the base of the great Rev- 
And longer with politics not to be 

cramm'd, [damn'd; 

Be Anarchy cursed, and be Tyranny 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove 

disloyal [first trial! 

May his son be a hangman, and he his 



ON THE POET'S DAUGHTER. 

The following lines were written on the loss 
of an " only daughter and darling ch^d '' of 
the poet's, who died in the autumn of 
1795 :— 

Here lies a rose, a budding rose, 
Blasted before its bloom : 

Whose innocence did sweets disclose 
Beyond that flower's perfume. 



EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS. Etc. 



185 



To those who for her loss are grieved, 

This consolation's given- 
She's from a world of woe relieved, 

And blooms a rose in heaven. 



ON A COUNTRY LAIRD. 

Bless the Redeemer, Cardoness, 
With grateful lifted eyes. 

Who said that not the soul alone. 
But body, too, must rise; 

For had He said, " The soul alone 
From death I will deliver;" 

Alfc3! alas! O Cardoness, 
Then thou hadst slept forever I 



THE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES. 

The origin of these lines is thus related by 
Cromek :— " When politics ran high the poet 
happened to be in a tavern, and the follow- 
ing lines — the production of one of ' The 
True Loyal Natives'— were handed over the 
table to Bums: — 

' Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song, 
Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell, pervade 
every throng ; [quack. 

With Craken the attorney, and Mundell the 
Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack.' 

The poet took out a pencil and instantly 
wrote this reply: "— 

Ye true " Loyal Natives" attend to my 
song, [long; 

In uproar and riot rejoice the night 

From envy and hatred your corps is 
exempt, [of contempt ? 

But where is your shield from the darts 



EPITAPH ON TAM THE 

CHAPMAN. 

Tarn the chapman was a Mr. Kennedy, a 
travelling agent for a commercial house. 
The following lines were composed on his 
recovery from a severe illness : — 

As Tam the Chapman on a day 
Wi' Death forgather'd by the way, 
Weel pleased, he greets a wight' sae 
famous, [Thomas, 

And Death was nae less pleased wi' 
Wha cheerfully lays down the pack, 
And there blaws up a hearty crack ;* 
; His social, friendly, honest heart 
Sae tickled Death, they couldna part: 



»FeUow. 



9 Qossip. 



Sae, after viewing knives and garters. 
Death takes him hame to gie him 
quarters. 



EPITAPH ON ROBERT AIKEN,ESQ. 

Know thou, O stranger to the fame 
Of this much-loved, much-honour'd 

name, 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart Death ne'er made cold I 



ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest. 
As e'er God with His image blest ! 
The friend of man, the friend of truth; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth; 
Few hearts like his, with virtue 

warm'd. 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd: 
If there's another world, he lives in 

bliss, [this. 

If there is none, he made the best of 



ON GAVIN HAMILTON. 
The poor man weeps — here Gavin 



Whom canting wretches blamed: 
But with such as he, where'er he be. 
May I be saved or damn'd 1 



ON WEE JOHNNY. 

HIC JACET WEE JOHNNY. 

John Wilson, the printer of the Kilmarnock 
edition of the poet's works. 

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know 
That Death has murder'd Johnny ! 

And here his body lies f u' low — 
For saul he ne'er had ony. 



ON A CELEBRATED RULING 
- ELDER. 

Here souter Hood in death does 



To hell, if he's gone thither, 

Satan, gie him thy gear' to keep. 

He'll haud'^ it weel thegither. 



» Wealth. 2Hoia, 



18« 



BURNS' WORKS. 



ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

James Humphrey, a working mason, was the 
'* noisy polemic " of this epitaph. Burns 
and he frequently disputed on Auld-Light 
and New-Light topics, and Humphrey, 
although an illiterate man, not unfrequently 
had the best of it. He died in great pover- 
ty, havmg solicited charity for some time 
before his death. We have heard it said 
that in soliciting charity from the strangers 
who arrived and departed by the Mauchline 
coach, he grounded his claims to their kind- 
ness on the epitaph—" Please sirs, I'm 
Burns' bletherin' bitch ! " 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes: 

O Death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin' bitch 

Into thy dark dominion ! 



ON A NOTED COXCOMB. 

Light lay the earth on Billy's breast, 
His chicken heart so tender; 

But build a castle on his head. 
His skull will prop it under. 



ON MISS JEAN SCOTT OF 
ECCLEFECHAN. 

The young lady, the subject of these lines, 
dwelt in Ayr, and cheered the poet, not 
only by her sweet looks, but also with her 
sweet voice. 

©H ! had each Scot of ancient times 
Been, Jeannie Scott, as thou art, 

The bravest heart on English ground, 
Had yielded like a coward ! 



ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY 
SQUIRE. 

As Father Adam first was fool'd, 
A case that's still too common. 

Here lies a man a woman ruled — 
The devil ruled the woman. 



ON THE SAME. 
O Death, hadst thou but spared his 
life 
Whom we this day lament ! 
We freely wad exchanged the wife, 
And a' been weel content ! 

E'en as he is, cauld in his graff. 
The swap' we yet will do't; 

I Bxchan|;e. 



Tak thou the carlin's* carcase aff, 
Thou'se get the saul to boot. 



ON THE SAME. 
One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell. 
When deprived of her husband sh« 

loved so well, 
In respect for the love and affection 

he'd show'd her 
She reduced him to dust and she drank 

up the powder. [complexion. 

But Queen Netherplace, of a different 
When call'd on to order the funeral 

direction. 
Would have eat her dead lord, on 

a slender pretence, 
Not to show her respect, but — to save 

the expense ! 



JOHNNY PEEP. 

Bums having been on a visit to a town in 
Cumberland one day, entered a tavern and 
opened the door of a room, but on seeing 
three men sitting, he was about to withdraw, 
when one of them shouted, "Come in, 
Johnny Peep." The poet accordingly en- 
tered, and soon became the ruling spirit 
of the party. In the midst of their mirth, it 
was proposed that each should write a verse 
of poetry, and place it along with a half- 
crown, on the table— the best poet to have 
his half-crown returned, and the other three 
to be spent in treating the party. It is 
almost needless to say that the palm of 
victory was awarded to the following lines 
by Bums :— 

Here am I, Johnny Peep; 
I saw three sheep, 

And these three sheep saw me; 
Half-a-crown apiece 
Will pay for their fleece, 

And so Johnny Peep gets free. 



THE HENPECKED HUSBAND. 

It is said that the wife of a gentleman, at 
whose table the poet was one day dining, 
expressed herself with more freedom than 
propriety regarding her husband's ex- 
travagant convivial habits, a rudeness 
which Burns rebuked in these sharp lines :— 

Cursed be the man, the poorest wretch 

in life. 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife! 



* Carlin— a woman with an evil tongue. In 
olden times used with reference to a womaa 
suspected of having dealings with the <i^y\U 



EPIGBAMS, EPITAPHS, Etc. 



187 



Who has no will but by her high per- 
mission; [session; 
Who has not sixpence bat in her pos- 
Who must to her his dear friend's 
secret tell; [than hell! 
Who dreads a curtain-lecture worse 
Were such the wife had fallen to my 
part, [heart; 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her 
I'd charm her with the magic of a 
switch, [verse bitch. 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the per- 



ON ANDREW TURNER. 

In se'enteen hunder and forty-nine, 
Satan took stuff to mak a swine, 

And cuist it in a corner; 
But wilily he changed his plan, 
And shaped it something like a man. 

And ca'd it Andrew Turner. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

© Thou, who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want! 
We bless thee, God of nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent: 
And, if it please thee, heavenly Guide, 

May never worse be sent; 
But, whether granted or denied. 

Lord, bless us with content! — Amen. 



ON MR. W. CRUIKSHANK. 

One of the masters of the High School, Edin- 
burgh, and a well-known friend of the 
poet's. 

Honest Will's to heaven gane, 
Andmony shall lament him; 

His faults they a' in Latin lay, 
In English nane e'er kent them. 



ON WAT. 

Bic a reptile was Wat, 

Sic a miscreant slave, 
That the very worms damn'd him 

When laid in hie grave. 
** In his flesh there's a famine," 

A starved reptile cries; 
•* And his heart is rank poison," 

pother replies. 



ON THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON 

IN CLYDESDALE. 

Having been stayed by a storm one Sunday as 
Lamington in Clydesdale, the poet went to 
church ; but the day was so cpld, the place 
so uncomfortable, and the sermon so poor, 
that he left the following poetic protest 
in the pew :— 

As cauld a wind as ever blew, 
A caulder kirk, and in't but few; 
As cauld a minister's e'er spak, 
Ye'se a' be het ere I come back. 



A MOTHER'S ADDRESS TO HER 
INFANT. 

My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippde: 
My blessin's upon thy bonny, ee-brie 1 

Thy smiles are sae like my blithe sod- 

ger laddie, [me! 

Thou's aye the dearer and dearer to 

VERSES 

WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS, ON 
THE OCCASION OF A NATIONAI* 
THANKSGIVING FOR A NAVAL VIC- 
TORY, 

Ye hypocrites ! are these your pranks'? 
To murder men, and gie God thanks 1 
For shame ! gie o'er— ^proceed no fur- 
ther— [ther ' 
God won't accept your thanks for mur- 



I MURDER hate by field or flood, 
Though glory's name may screen us; 

In wars at hame I'll spend my blood. 
Life-giving wars of Venus. 

The deities that I adore. 
Are social peace and plenty; 

I'm better pleased to make one more. 
Than be the death of twenty. 



My bottle is my holy pool. 

That heals the wounds o' care and dool; 

And pleasure is a wanton trout, 

An' ye drink it dry, ye'll find him out. 



ON JOHN BUSHBY. 

Bush by, it seems, was a sharp-witted, clevet 
lawyer, who happened to cross the poet's 
path in politics, and was therefore consid- 
ered a fair subject for a lampoon. 

Here lies John Bushby, honest man! 
Cheat him^ devil, gin you can, , 



188 



BURNS' WORKS. 



LINES TO JOHN RANKINE. 

These lines were written by Burns while on 
his death-bed, and forwarded to Rankine 
immediately after the poet's death. 

He who of Rankine sang lies stiff and 

dead, [head; 

And a green grassy hillock haps his 

Alas ! alas ! a devilish change indeed ! 



TO MISS JESSY LEWARS. 

*' During- the last illness of the poet," says 
Cunningham, " Mr. Brown, the surgeon 
who attended him, came in, and stated that 
he had been looking at a collection of wild 
beasts just arrived, and pulling out the list 
of the animals, held it out to Jessy Lewars. 
The poet snatched it from him, took up a 
pen, and with red ink wrote the following 
on the back of the paper, saying, ' Now it is 
fit to be presented to a lady.' " 

Talk not to me of savages 

From Afric's burning sun, 
No savage e'er could rend my heart 

As, Jessy, thou hast done. 

But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, 

A mutual faith to plight. 
Not even to view the heavenly choir 

Would be so blest a sight. 



THE TOAST. 

On another occasion, while Miss Lcv-^^s was 
waiting upon him during his illness, he took 
up a crystal goblet, and writing the follow- 
ing lines on it, presented it to her :— 

Fill me with the rosy wine. 
Call a toast — a toast divine; 
Give the poet's darling flame. 
Lovely Jessy be the name; 
Then thou mayst freely boast 
Thou hast given a peerless toast. 



ON THE SICKNESS OF MISS JESSY 

LEWARS. 

On Miss Lewars complaining of illness in the 
hearing of the poet, he said he would pro- 
vide for the worst, and seizing another 
crystal goblet, he wrote as follows : — 

Pay, sages, what's the charm on •arth 
Can turn Death's dart aside ? 



It is not purity and worth. 
Else Jessy had not died. 



ON THE RECOVERY OP JESSY 

LEWARS. 

On her recovering health, the poet sail 
" There is a poetic reason for it, and com 
posed the following :— 

But rarely seen since nature's birth. 

The natives of the sky; 
Yet still one seraph's left on earth 

For Jessy did not die. 



A BOTTLE AND AN HONEST 
FRIEND. 

Some doubt has been expressed by th< 
brother of the poet as to the authenticity of 
this small piece :— 

"■ There's nane that's blest of humankind 
But the cheerful and the gay, man. 
Fal, lal," &c. 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend! 

What wad you wish for mair, man t 
Wha kens, before his life may end, 
' What his share may be of care, man! 

Then catch the moments as they fly. 
And use them as ye ought, man; 

Believe me. Happiness is shy, [man. 
And comes not aye when sought, 



GRACE AFTER DINNER. 

Thou, in whom we live and move. 
Who madest the sea and shore ; 

Thy goodness constantly we prove. 
And, grateful, would adore. 

And if it please Thee, Power above. 
Still grant -us, with such store. 

The friend we trust, the fair we 1ot«^ 
And we desire no more. 



ANOTHER. 

Lord, we thank Thee and adore. 
For temp'ral gifts we little merit; 

At present we will ask no more — 
Let William Hyslop give the spiri*'^ 



SONGS. 



MY HANDSOME NELL. 

Tune — " I am a man unmarried." 
Kelly Kilpatrick, the heroine of this song, 
was the daughter of the village blacksmith, 
and the poet s first partner in the labours of 
the harvest-field. She was the "sonsie 
guean" he sings of , whose " witching smile" 
first made his heart-strings tingle. " This 
song," he says, " was the first of my per- 
formances, and done at an early period of 
my life, when my heart glowed with honest, 
warm simplicity— unacquainted and uncor- 
rupted with the ways of a wicked world. 
It has many faults ; but I remember I com- 
posed it in a wild enthusiasm of passion ; 
and to this hour I never recollect it but my 
heart melts— my blood sallies, at the remem- 
brance." 

Oh, once I loved a bonny lass, 

Aye, and I love her still; 
And whilst that virtue warms my breast 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 

Fal, lal de ral, &c. 
As bonny lasses I hae seen, 

And mony full as braw;i 
But for a modest, gracefu' mien, 

The like I never saw. 

A bonny lass, I will confess. 

Is pleasant to the ee 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet; 

And, what is best of a' — 
Her reputation is complete, 
' And fair without a flaw. 

Bhe dresses aye sae clean and neat, 

Baith decent and genteel ; 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars' ony (iress look weel. 



i WwU dressed. 



^ Makes. 



A gaudy dress aiid gentle afr 
May slightly touch the heart; 

But it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases mcL 
'Tis this enchants my soull 

For absolutely in my breast 
She reigns without control. 

I DREAM'D I LAY WHERE l^XOW- 
ERS WERE SPRINGING. 

" These two stanzas," says the poet, " which 
are among the oldest of my printed pieces, 
I composed when I was seventeen." 

I dream'd I lay where flowers were 
springing 

Gayly in the sunny beam, 
Listening to the wild birds singing 

By a falling crystal stream: 
Straight the sky grew black and daring; 

Through the woods the whirlwinds 
rave; 
Trees with aged arms were warring. 

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 

Such was my life's deceitful morning. 

Such the pleasures I enjoy'il; 
But lang or' noon, loud tempesfis stormo 
ing, 

A' my flowery bliss destroy'^?, [me, 
Though fickle T'ortune has tieceived 

(She promised fair, and pbiiform'd 
but ill,) 
Of mony a joy and hope bereaved me, 

I bear a heart shall support me still 

1 Ere. 



ido 



BURNS' WORKS. 



MY NANNIE, O. 

Tune—" My Nannie, O." 

Behind yon liills, where Lugar flows 
'Mang moors and mosses many, O, 

The wintry sun the day has closed. 
And I'll awa' to Nannie, O. 

The westlin wind blaws loud and shrill : 
The night's baith mirk and rainy, 0; 

But I'll get my plaid, and out I'll steal, 
And owre the hills to Nannie, O. 

My Nannie's charming, sweet, and 
young, 

Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, 0: 
May ill bef a' the flattering tongue 

That wad beguile my Nannie, O, 

Her face is fair, her heart is true. 
As spotless as she's bonny, O: 

The opening gowan,' wat wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 

A country lad is my degree. 

And few there be that ken me, O; 

But what care I how few they be, 
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. 

My riches a's my penny-fee,^ 
And I maun guide it cannie, 0; 

But warl's gear^ ne'er troubles me. 
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. 

Our auld guidman delights to view 
His sheep and kye thrive bonny, O; 

But I'm as blithe that hands his pleugh, 
And has na care but Nannie, 0. 

Come weel, come woe, I care na by, 
I'll tak what Heaven will sen' me, O; 

Nae ither care in life have I 

But live and love my Nannie, O ! 



O TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 

Tune — " Invercauld's Reel." 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day 

Ye wadna been sae shy; 
For lack o' gear ye lightly' me. 

But, trowth, I care na by. 



b 



a Daisy 



« Wages. 9 World's wealth. 
» Slight. 



Yestreen 1 7vct yo'i on the moor. 
Ye spak ua, but gaed by like stoure.' 
Ye geck^ at me because I'm poor. 
But feint a hair care I. 

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 
Because ye hae the name o' clink,* 
That ye can please me at a wink 
Whene'er ye like to try. 

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Although his pouch o' coin were cleaa, 
Wlia follows ony saucy quean,^ 
That looks sae proud and high. 

Although a lad were e'er sae smart. 
If that he want the yellow dirt 
Ye'll cast yer head anither airt,' 
And answer him f u* dry. 

But if he hae the name o' gear,' 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier. 
Though hardly he, for sense or lear,® 
Be better than the kye.^ 

But Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice; 
The deil a ane wad spier your price 
Were ye as poor as I. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I wadna gie her in her sark'"^ 
For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark I 
Ye need na look sae high. 



ON CESSNOCK BANKS. 

Tune—" If he be a butcher neat and trhn.'* 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, 
Could I describe her shape and mien. 

The graces of her weelfaurd' face. 
And the glancing of her sparkling 
een. 

She's fresher than the morning dawn. 
When rising Phoebus first is seen. 

When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lavm^ 
And she's twa glancing, sparkling 
een. 

She's stately, like yon youthful ash 
That grows the cowslip braes be 
tween, 



2 Dust driven by the wind. ' Mock. < 
Money. * Wench. ® Direction. ^ Wealth 
« Learning. ^ Cows, ^o Shift. 

1 Well-favoured. 



SONGS. 



191 



And slioots it's head above each bush ; 
And she's twa glancing, sparkling 
een. 

She's spotless as the flowering thorn, 
With flowers so white and leaves so 
green. 
When purest in the dewy morn ; 
And she's twa glancing, sparkling 
een. 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb, 
When flowery May adorns the scene, 

That wantons round its bleating dam; 
And she's twa glancing, sparkling 



Her hair is like the curling mist [e'en 
That shades the mountain-side at 

When flower-reviving rains are past; 
And she's twa glancing, sparkling 
een. 

Her forehead's like the showery bow. 

When shining sunbeams intervene. 
And gild the distant mountain's brow; 

And she's twa glancing, sparkling 
een. 
Her voice is like the evening thrush 

That sings on Cessnock banks un- 

Siien, [bush; 

While his mate sits nestling in the 

And she's twa glancing, sparkling 



Her lips are like the cherries ripe 

That sunny walls from Boreas 

screen — [sight; 

They tempt the taste and charm the 

And she's twa glancing, sparkling 

een. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep 
With fleeces newly washen clean, 

That slowly mount the rising steep; 
And she's twa glancing, sparkling 



Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean 

When Phoebus sinks behind the seas; 
And she's twa glancing, sparkling 
een. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Though matching beauty's fabled 
queen, 
But the mind that shines in every grace, 
, A&d Qhiefly in her sparkling een, 



IMPROVED VERSION. 



On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells, 
Could I describe her shape and miea; 

Our lassies a' she far excels; 
And she's twa sparkling, roguish een. 

She's sweeter than the morning dawn. 
When rising Phcebus first is seen. 

And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn; 
And she's twa sparkling, roguish een. j 

She's stately, like yon youthful ash 
That grows the cowslip braes be- 
tween, [fresh; 

And drinks the stream with vigouf- 
And she's twa sparkling, roguish een. 

She's spotless, like the flowering thorn. 
With flowers so white, and leaves so 
green, 

When purest in the dewy morn; 
And she's twa sparkling, roguish 



een. 



fler looks are like the vernal May, 
When evening Phcebus shines serene, 

While birds rejoice on every spray; 
And she's twa sparkling, roguish een. 

Her hair is like the curling mist [e'en 
That climbs the mountain-sides at 

When flower-reviving rains are past; 
And she's twa sparkling, roguish een. 

Her forehead's like the showery bow. 
When gleaming sunbeams intervene. 

And gild the distant mountain's brow; 
And she's twa sparkling, roguish een. 

Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem^ 
The pride of all the flowery scene, 

Just opening on its thorny stem; 
And she's twa sparkling, roguish een. 

Her teeth are like the nightly snow. 
When pale the morning rises keen. 

While hid the murm'ring streamlets 
flow; 
And she' stwa sparkling, roguish een. 

Her lips are like yon cherries ripe 
That sunny walls from Boreas 
screen — [sight ; 

They tempt the taste and charm the 
And she's twa sparklinL', roguish een. 

Her breath is lilce the fragrant breeze, 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean 

When Phoebus sinks behind the seas; 
And she's twft sparkling, roguish eeiv 



102 



BURNS' WORKa 



Her voice is like the evening thrush, 
That sings on Cessnock banks un- 
seen, [bush ; 

^Vhile his mate sits nestling in the 
And she's twa sparkling, roguish een. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 

Though matching beauty's fabled 

queen, [grace; 

^Tis the mind that shines in every 
And chiefly in her roguish een. 



MY FATHER WAS A FARMER. 

Tune— "The Weaver and his Shuttle, O." 

" The following song," says the poet, " is a 
wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versi- 
fication ; but the sentiments were the 
genuine feelings of my heart at the time it 
was written," 

My father was a farmer 

Upon the Carrick border, O, 
And carefully he bred me ♦ 

In decency and order, 0; 
He bade me act a manly part. 

Though I had ne'er a farthing, 0, 
For without an honest manly heart. 

No man was worth regarding, O. 

Then out into the world 

My course I did determine, O; 
Though to be rich was not my wish 

Yet to be great was charming, O: 
My talents they were not the worst, 

Nor yet my education, 0; 
Resolved was I, at least to try, 

To mend my situation, 0. 

In many a way, and vain essay, 

I courted Fortune's favour, O; 
Some cause unseen still stept between. 

To frustrate each endeavour, 0; 
Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd; 

Sometimes by friends forsaken, O; 
Ajid when my hope was at the top, 

I still was worst mistaken, 0. 

Then sore harass'd, and tired at last. 

With Fortune's vain delusion, O, 
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams. 

And came to this conclusion, 0: 
The past was bad, and the future hid ; 

Its good or ill untried, O; 
But the present hour was in my power, 

Aad SO I would enjoy it, 0. 



No help, nor hope, nor view had I, 

Nor person to befriend me, O; 
So I must toil, and sweat, and broil. 

And labour to sustain me, 0: 
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, 

My father bred me early, O; 
For one, he said, to labour bred, 

Was a match for Fortune fairly, O. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, 

Through life I'm doomed to wau 
der, 0, 
Till down my weary bones I lay 

In everlasting slumber, O, 
No view nor care, but shun whate'er 

Might breed me pain or sorrow, O* 
I live to-day as well's I may, 

Regardless of to-morrow, O. 

But cheerful still, I am as well 

As a monarch in a palace, O, 
Though Fortune's frown still hunts 
me down. 

With all her wonted malice, O: 
1 make indeed my daily bread. 

But ne'er can make it farther, O; 
But as daily bread is all I need, 

I do not much regard her, O. 

When sometimes by my labour 

I earn a little money, O, 
Some unforseen misfortune 

Comes generally upon me, O: 
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect. 

Or my good-natured folly, O; 
But come what will, I've sworn it still 

I'll ne'er be melancholy, O. 

All you who follow wealth and power 

With unremitting ardour, O, 
The more in this you look for bliss. 

You leave your view the farther, O, 
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, i 

Or nations to adore you, O, 
A cheerful, honest-hearted clow 

I will prefer before you, O 1 



JOHN BARLEYCORN: 

A BAIiLAD. 

The following is an improvement of an earljr 
song of English origin, a copy of which 
was obtained by Mr. Robert Jameson from 
a black-letter sheet in the Pepys Library, 
Cambridge, and first published in bi» 
''Ballads:''— 



SONGS. 



193 



There were three kings into the east, 
Three kings both great and high; 

And they hae swore a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

They took a plough and plough'd him 
down. 

Put clods upon his head; 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, 
And showers began to fall; 

John Barleycorn got up again, 
And sore surprised them all. 

The sultry suns of summer came. 
And he grew thick and strong; 

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears. 
That no one should him wrong. 

The sober autumn enter'd mild. 
When he grew wan and pale; 

His bending joints and drooping head 
Show'd ho began to fail. 

His colour sicken'd more and more 

He faded into age; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp. 

And cut him by the knee; 
Tlien tied him fast upon a cart. 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

They kid him down upon his back, 
And cudgell'd him full sore; 

They hung him up before the storm. 
And tiirn'd him o'er and o'er. 

TL'»y fill ki up a darksome pit 

VVlSa water to the brim; 
They htaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 

They laid him out upon the floor. 
To work him further woe: 

And still, as signs of life appear'd. 
They toss'd him to and fro. 

They wasted o'er a scorching flame 

The marrow of his bones; 
But a miller used him worst of all— 

He crushed him 'tween two stones. 

And they hae ta'en his very heart's 
blood, 
Aa^ 4rauk it rouod a»d round, 



And still the more and more they 
drank, 
Their joy did more abounr'. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold. 

Of noble enterprise; 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 

'Twill make a man forget his woe; 

'Twill heighten all his joy: 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing. 

Though the tear were in her eye. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 

Each man a glass in hand; 
And may his great posterity 

Ne'er fail in old Scotland 1 



MONTGOMERY'S PEGGY. 

Tune—" Gala Water." 

" Montgomery's Peggy." says the poet, "wh« 
had been bred in a style of life rather 
elegant, was my deity for six or eight 
months." 

Although my bed w^ere in yon muir, 
Amang the heather, in my plaidie. 

Yet happy, happy would I be, 
Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy 

When o'er the hill beat surly storms, 
And winter nights were dark and 
rainy; 

I'd seek some dell, and in my arms 
I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy. 

Were I a baron proud and high. 
And horse and servants waiting 
ready. 

Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me. 
The sharin't wi' Montgomery's 



MARY MORISON. 

Tune—" Bide ye yet."' 

O Mary, at thy window be. 

It is the wish'd, the trystedhourl 
Those smiles and glances let me see 

That make the miser's treasure poor: 
How blithely wad 1 bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun; 
Could I the rich reward secure^ 

The lovely Mary Morisou. 



194 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Yestreen, wlien to the trembling 
string, [ha'. 

The dance gaed through the lighted 
To thee my fancy took its wing — 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw: 
Though tins was fair, and that was 
braw, 

And yon the toast of a' the town, 
I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 

" Ye are na Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his 

Whase only faut is loving thee? 
U love for love thou wilt na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



THE RIGS O' BARLEY. 

Tune—" Corn Rigs are Bonny." 

It was upon a Lammas night, 

When com rigs are bonny, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa' to Annie: 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed. 

Till, 'tween the late and early, 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed 

To see me through the barley. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still. 

The moon was shining clearly, 
I set her down, wi' right good will, 

Amang the rigs o' barley: 
1 kent her heart was a' my ain, 

I loved her most sincerely: 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

1 lock'd her in my fond embrace! 

Her heart was beating rarely, 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moon and stars so bright. 

That shone that hour so clearly! 
She aye shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear; 

I hae been merry drinkin'! 
1 hae been joyfu' gath'rin' gear; 
. I liae been happy thiukin'; 



But a' the pleasures e'er I saw. 

Though three times doubled fairly. 

That happy night was worth them a.', 
Amang the rigs o' barley. 

Corn rigs, and barley rigs. 
And corn rigs are bonny: 

I'll ne'er forget that happy night, 
Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 



PEGGY. 



Tune—" I had a horse, I had nae mair." 
Now westlin winds and slaught'ring 
guns 
Bring autumn's pleasant weather; 
The moorcock springs on whirring 
wings, 
Amang the blooming heather: 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain. 

Delights the weary farmer; 
And the moon shines bright, when I 
rove at night. 
To muse upon my charmer. 

The partridge loves the fruitful fells-, 

The plover loves the mountains; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells; 

The soaring hern the fountains: 
Through lofty groves the dushat^ roves, 

The path of man toshufi it; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush. 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 

Thus every kind their pleasure find. 

The savage and the tender; 
Some social join, and leagues combine; 

Some solitary wander: 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion; [cry. 

The sportsman's joy, the murdering 

The fluttering, gory pinion! 

But Peggy, dear, the evening's clear. 

Thick flies the skimming swallow; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view. 

All fading green and yellow: 
Come, let us stray our gladsome way. 

And view the charms of nature; 
The rustling com, the fruited thorn. 

And every happy creature. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 
Till the silent mf ton shine clearly; 



1 Wood-pigeon, 



SONGS. 



1^5 



I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest. 
Swear how I love thee dearly: 

Not vernal showers to budding flowers, 
Not autumn to the farmer. 

So dear can be, as thou to me. 
My fair, my lovely charmer! 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES, O ! 
Tune — " Green grow the rashes." 
Green grow the rashes, ! 
Green grow the rashes, ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, 
Are spent amang the lasses, ! 

There's nought but care on every han'. 
In every hour that passes, O: 

Wljat signifies the life o' mt.n. 
An' 'twere na for the lasses, ? 

The warl'ly^ race may riches chase. 
And riches still may fly them, O; 

A.nd though at last they catch them 
fast. 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 

But gie me a canny"^ hour at een. 
My arms about my dearie, O, 

And warl'ly cares, and warl'ly men, 
May a' gae tapsalteerie,^ O. 

For you sae douce,^ ye sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses. O; 

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, 
He dearly loved the lasses, O. 

Auld Nature swears the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, 0, 

Her 'prentice hand she tried on man. 
And then she made the lasses. O. 



THE CURE FOR ALL CARE. 

Tune—" Prepare, my dear brethren, to the 
tavern let's fly." 

The poet composed this song shortly after 
joining he TTbolton Mason Lodge, which 
was long ote in the west for its festivities. 

No ciinrch-^ari m I for to rail and to 
writri, ""fight, 

1^0 statesman nor soldier to p'lv)^ or to 

N sly man of business contriving a 
suare — [my care. 

For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of 

^ Worldly. « Happy, lucky. 3 Topsy-turvy. 
» Grave. 



The peer I don't envy, I give him hia 
bow ; [low; 

I scorn not the peasant, though ever so 

But a club of good fellows, like those 
that are here, [care. 

And a bottle lilce this, are my glory and 

Here passes the squire on his brother— 
his horse; [his purse; 

There centum per centum, the cit with 

But see you the crown, how it waves 
in the air ! [care. 

There a big-bellied bottle still eases my 

The wife of my bosom, alas I she did 
die; [fly; 

For sweet consolation to church I did 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That a big- bellied bottle's a cure for all 
care. 

I once was persuaded a venture tC 
make; [wreck;— ^ 

A letter informed me that all was to 

But the pursy old landlord just wad- 
dled up stairs [cares. 

With a glorious bottle that ended my 

"Life's cares they are comforts," — a 

maxim laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that 

wore the black gown; [a hair; 

And faith, I agree with the old prig to 
For a big-bellied bottle's a heaven of a 

care. 

ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. 

Then fill up a bumper, and make it 
o'erflow, [throw; 

And honours masonic prepare for to 

May every true brother of the compass 
and square [with care I 

Have a big-bellied bottle when harass''^ 



TUNE- 



MY JEAN ! 

" The Northern Lass. 



" The heroine of this sweet snatch," says Cun« 
ningham, " was bonny Jean. It was com- 

fosed when the poet contemplated the West 
ndia voyage, and an eternal separation 
from the land and all that was dear to 
him." 

Though crueil fate should bid us part 

Far as the pole and line. 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 



m 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Tboogh mountains rise, and deserts 
howl, 

And oceans roar between; 
5et, dearer than my deathless sov.l, 
1 still would love my Jean. 



A FRAGMENT. 
Tune — " John Anderson my Jo." 

v^NE night as I did wander , 

NVlien corn begins to shoot, 
I sat me down to ponder 

Upon an auld tree root: 
Auld Ayr rai hy before me. 

And bickei'i- lO the seas; 
A cushat croodled- o'er me, 

That echo'd through the braes. 



WHEN CLOUDS IN SKIES DO 
COME TOGETHER. 

•*The following," says the poet in his first 
Commonplace Book, " was an extempore 
effusion, composed under a train of misfor- 
tunes which threatened to undo me alto- 
gether." 

When clouds in skies do come together 

To hide the brightness of the 

sun [weather 

There will surely be some pleasant 

When a' their storms are past and 

gone. 

Though fickle Fortune has deceived 
me, [but ill; 

She promised fair, and perform'd 
Of mistress, friends, and wealth be- 
reaved me, [still. 
Yet I bear a heart shall support me 

I'll act with prudence, as far's I'm able; 

But if success I must never find. 
Then come Misfortune, I bid thee wel- 
come, [mind, 

I'll meet thee with an undaunted 



ROBIN. 

Tune—" Dainty Davie." 

It is related that when the poet's mother felt 
her time approach, his father took horse in 
the darkness of a stormy January night, 
and set o-at for Ayr to pi-ocure the necessary 



> Raced leapingly. 3 W<rX^'pigtoa cooed. 



female attendant. On arriving at the fori 
of a rivulet which crossed the road, ha 
found it so deep in flood, that a female way- 
farer sat on the opposite side unable td 
cross ; and, notwithstanding his own haste, 
he conveyed the woman through the sirc-ci.i. 
on his horse. On returning from Ayr with 
the midwife, he found the gipsy, for such 
she proved to be, seated at his cottage fire- 
side ; and on the child's being placed m the 
lap of the woman, shortly after his birth 
she is said to have inspected his palm, 
after the manner of her tribe, and made tha 
predictions which the poet has embodied ic 
the song. 

There was a lad was born in Kyle, 
But whatna day o' wliatna style, 
I doubt it's hardly worth tlib while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin. 
Robin was a rovnn' boy, 

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; 
Robin was a rovin' boy, 
Rantin' rovin' Robin ! 

Our monarch's hindmost year but an© 
Was five and twenty days begun, 
'Twas then a blast o* Januar win 
Blew hansel in on Robin. 

The gossip keekit' in his loof ,2 
Quo' she, wha lives will see the proof, 
This waly" boy will be nae coof"* — 
I think we'll ca' him Robin. 

He'll hae misfortunes great and sma'. 
But aye a heart aboon them a'; 
He'll be a credit till us a', 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 

But, sure as three times three mak 

nine, 
I see, by ilka score and line,^ 
This chap will dearly like our kin'. 
So leeze= me on thee, Robin. 

Guid faith, quo' she, I doubt ye gar 
The bonny lasses lie aspar. 
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur. 
So blessin's on thee, Robin ! 



LUCKLESS FORTUNE. 

O RAGING Fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low, O ! . 

O raging Fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low, ! 



1 Peeped. " Palm, 
term of endearment. 



3 Goodly. 4 Fool. » 4 



SONGS- 



191 



My stem was fair, my bud was greeu, 
My blossom sweet did blow, O; 

JThe dew fell fresh, the sun i-ose mild, 
And made my branches grow, O. 

But luckless Fortune's northern storms 
Laid a' my blossoms low, O; 

But luckless Fortune's northern storms 
Laid a' my blossoms low, O. 



THE MAUCHLINE LADY. 

Tune—" I had a horse, I had naeftnair." 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle, 

My mind it was na steady: 
Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade, 

A mistress still I had aye ; 

But when I came roun* by Mauchline 
town. 

Not dreadin' ony body, 
My heart was caught, before I thought. 

And by a Mauchline lady.* 



THE BRAES 0' BALLOCHMYLE. 

Tune—" Braes o' Ballochmyle." 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen. 

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea, 
Nae laverock' sang on hillock green, 

But nature sicken'd on the ee. 
Through faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel in beauty's bloom the while, 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle ! 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 
Again ye'll flourish fresli and fair; 
Ye birdies dumb in withering bowers, 
) Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm or floweret smile : 
Fareweel the bonny banks of Ayr, 
Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Balloch- 
myle 1 



YOUNG PEGGY. 

Tune—" The last time I cam o'er the muir." 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 
Her blush is like the morning. 



1 Lark. 
♦ Jean Armour. 



The rosy dawn the springing grass 
Witli pearly gems adorning: 

Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 
That gild the passing shower, 

And glitter o'er the crystal streams. 
And cheer each freshening flower. 

Her lips more than the cherries bright, 

A richer dye has graced them; 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sights 

And sweetly temji to taste them ; 
Her smile is, like the evening, mild. 

When feather'd tribes are courting, 
And little lamb ins wanton wild. 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 

Such sweetness would relent her; 
As blooming Spring unbends the brow 

Of surly, savage Winter. 
Detraction's eye no aim can gain, 

Her winning powers to lessen; 
And spiteful Envy grins in vain. 

The poison'd tooth to fasten. 

Ye Powers of Honour, Love, and 
Truth, 

From every ill defend her; 
Inspire the highly -favour'd youth 

The destinies intend her; 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame. 

Responsive in each bosom; 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom. 



THE Rii:NTIN' DOG THE DADDIE 
O'T. 

Tune—" East neuk o' Fife." 

The subject of this lively ditty was a girl of 
the name of Elizabeth Paton, a domestic 
servant in the poet's house, and the mother 
of his illegitimate child— "sonsie, smirking, 
dear-bought Bess," " I composed it," he 
says, " pretty early in life, and sent it to a 
young girl, a very particular acquaintance 
of mine, who was at the time under a 
cloud." 

Oh wha my babie-clouts' will buy ? 
Oh wha Avill tent* me when I cry ? 
Wlia will kiss me where I lie ? — 
The rantin' dog the daddie o't. 

Oh wha will own he did the faut ? 
Oh wha will buy the groanin' maut 1^ 



1 Baby-c^.o'hes. 2 Heed. ^ Malt to brew 
ale to wel .1 the birth of a child. 



196 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Oh wha will tell me how to ca't — 
The rantin' dog the daddie o't. 

When I mount the creepie-chair,* 
Wha will sit beside me there ! 
Oie me Rob, I'll seek nae mair. 
The rantin' dog the daddie o't. 

Wha will crack to me my lane ? 
Wha will mak me fidgiu-fain ?^ 
Wha will kiss me o'er again ? — 
The rantin' dog the daddie o't. 



MENIKt 

Tune—" Johnny's Gray Breeks." 

The chorus of this beautiful lyric was bor- 
rowed by B rns *-om a song composed by 
an Edinburgh gentleman; but it has been 
generally objected to by critics as interfer- 
ing with the sombre sentiments of the 
lines. 

Again rejoicing nature sees 
Her robe assume its vernal hues, 

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 

CHORUS. 

And maun I still on Menie dote, 
And bear the scorn that's in her ee ? 

For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a 
hawk. 
And it winna let a body be ! 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw. 
In vain to me the violets spring; 

In vain to me in glen or sliaw^ 
The mavis and the lintwhite^ sing. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the tentie^ seedsman stalks; 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks.^ 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims. 
And everything is blest but I. 

The shepherd steeks* his faulding 

slap,^ [shrill; 

And owre the moorlands whistles 

* Fidget with delight. 

» Wood. « Linnet. » Heedful. « Wakes. 
• Shuts. 8 Gate. 

* The stool of repentance, on which cul- 
orit-s formerly sat when making public satis- 
faction in the church. 
, t The common abbreviation c ' . . lamne. 



Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step, 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and 

dark. 

Blithe waukens by the daisy's side, 

And mounts and sings on fluttering 

wings, [glide. 

A woe - worn ghaist I hameward 

Come, Winter, with thy angry howl, 
And raging bend the naked tree; 

Thy gloom will soothe my cheerlesa 
soul. 
When nature all is sad like me I 



LAMENT, 

WRITTEN AT A TIME WHEN THE POEl 
WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE SCOTLAND. 

Tune—" The Banks of the Devon." 

These verses were first given to the public iq 
the columns of the Dumfries Journal. 



O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of tha 
lone mountain straying. 
Where the wild winds of winter in- 
cessantly rave. 
What woes wring my heart while in* 
tently surveying 
The storm's gloomy path on thfl 
breast of the wave! 

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to 

wail, [native shore; 

Ere ye toss me afar from my loved 

Where the flower which bloom'd 

sweetest in Coila's green vale. 

The pride of my bosom, my Mary's 

no more! 

No more by the banks of the streamlet 

we'll wander, [in the wave: 

And smile at the moon's rimpled face 

No more shall my arms cling with 

fondness around her, 

For the dewdrops of morning fall 

cold on her grave. 

No more shall the soft thrill of lov« 

warm my breast, [tant shore* 

I haste with the storm to a far-dis- 

Where, unknown, unlamented, my 

ashes shall rest, [more. 

And joy shall revisit my boeom ni 



SONGS. 



m 



THERE WAS A LASS. 
Tune— "Duncan Da/ison." 

There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 
And she held o'er the moor to spin; 

There was a lad that foUow'd her, 
They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 

The moor was driegh' and Meg was 
skiegh/'^ 

Her favour Duncan couldna win ; 

For wi' the rock she wad him knock. 
And aye she shook the temper-pin. 

As o'er the moor they lightly foor,^ 
A burn was clear, a glen was green, 

Upon the banlcs they eased their 
shanks. 

And aye she set the wheel between : 

But Duncan swore a haly aith, 

That Meg should be a bride the morn. 

Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith,"* 
And flang them a' out o'er the burn. 

We'll big a house — a wee, wee house. 

And we will live like king and 
queen, 
Sae blithe and merry we will be 

When ye sit by the wheel at e'en. 
A man may drink and no be drunk; 

A man may fight and no be slain; 
A man may kiss a bonny lass. 

And aye be welcome back again. 



AFTON WATER. 

Tune— "The Yellow-hair'd Laddie." 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy 
green braes, [thy praise; 

Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in 

My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring 
stream — [her dream. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton. disturb not 

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds 
through the glen, [thorny den. 

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy 
screaming forbear — [ing fair. 

I charge you disturb not my slumber- 
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbour- 
ing hills, [winding rills; 
Far mark'd with the courses of clear 



» Tedious, 

•Gear, 



High-mindeflu 3 Went. 



There daily I wander as noon j Ises high. 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot ir 
my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green val 
leys below, [roses blow ; 

Where wild in the woodlands the pri^a 

There oft as mild evening weeps cv"- 
the lea, [and n; 

The sweet-scented birk shades my Ma 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lov( 
it glides, [residi.;, 

And winds by the cot where my Maiy 

How wanton thy waters hei'snowy fe. t 
lave, [thy clear wav(j. 

As gathering sweet flowerets she stenid 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy 
green braes, [my lays; 

Flow gently, sweet river, the theme or 

My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring 
stream — [not her dream .' 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb 



THE HIGHLAND LASSIE. 

Tune—" The deuks dang o'er my daddy." 

" This," says the poet, " was a composition o 
mine before I was at all known in the 
world. My Highland lassie [Mary] was i 
warm-hearted, charming young creature aa 
ever blessed a man with generous love. 
For an account of this simple, interesting 
girl, whom the poet's passion has placed in 
^' Fame's proud temple," and clothed with 
immortality as with a garment, the readei 
is referred to the introduction to the verses 
entitled, "To Mary in Heaven," p. 2iy. 
Burns having sent this song to Mary when 
she was residing with her parents in the 
Highlands, her mother saw it, and greatly 
admired it ; and years after the death of 
this gentle girl, whom every one seems to 
have loved, it is said the poor old woman 
was wont to soothe her sorrow by singing 
to her grandchildren the sweet strains in 
which the poet has celebrated the beauty 
and charms of her favourite daughter. Hav- 
ing outlived her husband and many of her 
children, she died in great poverty at 
Greenock in 1822. 

Nae gentle* dames, though e'er sa« 

fair. 
Shall ever be my Muse's care: 



* Gentle is used here in opposition to sim- 
ple, in the Scottish and old English sense o* 
the word. — Nae gentle dames — no high-bloo4' 
ed names.- -CuRRm, 



soo 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Their titles a' are empty show; 
Oie me my Highland Lassie, O. 

Within the glen sae bushy, 0, 
Aboon the plains sae rushy, O. 
I set me down wi' right good will. 
To sing my Highland Lassie, 0. 

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine. 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
The world then the love should know 
I bear my Highland Lassie, 0. 

But fickle Fortune frowns on me. 
And I maun cross the raging sea ! 
But while my crimson currents flow, 
I'll love my Highland Lassie, O. 

Although through foreign climes I 

range, 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's 

glow. 
My faithful Highland Lassie, 0. 

For her I'll dare the billows' roar, 
For her I'll trace the distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my Highland Lassie, 0. 

She has my heart, she has my hand, 
By sacred truth and honour's band ! 
'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my Highland Lassie, 0. 

Fareweel the glen sae bushy, 0! 
Fareweel the plain sae rushy, O! 
To other lands I now must go. 
To sing my Highland Lassie, ! 



MARY! 



Tune—" Blue Bonnets." 

This beautiful song was found amongst the 
poet's manuscripts after his death, inscribed, 
^' A Prayer for Mary." Who Mary was the 
world knows. 

Powers celestial ! whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
Wliile in distant climes I wander. 

Let my Mary be your care; 
Let her form sae fair and faultless. 

Fair and faultless as your own. 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her 
Soft and peaceful as her breast; 



Breathing in the breeze that fans her. 
Soothe her bosom into rest. 

Guardian angels! oh, protect her, 
When in distant lands I roam; [me. 

To realms unknown while fate exiles 
Make her bosom still my home! 



WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES. MY 
MARY? 

" In my very early years," says the poet, in a 
letter to Mr. Thomson in 1792, " when I was 
thinking of going to the "West Indies, I took 
the following farewell of a dear girl [High- 
land Mary] : — 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary^ 
Across the Atlantic's roar ? 

Oh, sweet grow the lime and the 
orange, 

And the apple on the pine; 
But a' the charms o' the Indies 

Can never equal thine. 

I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be 
true; 

And sae may the Heavens forget me 
When I forget my vow ! 

Oh, plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand; 

Oh, plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 
In mutual affection to join; [us! 

And curst be the cause that shall part 
The hour and the moment o' time! 



ELIZA. 



Tune—" Gilderoy. 

From thee, Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar; 
But boundless oceans roaring wide 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee I 

Fapewell, farewell, Eliza dear. 

The maid that I adore I 
A boding voice is in mine ear. 

We part to meet iio mort J 



r 



soms. 



901 



I 



The latest throb that leaves my heart. 
While death stands victor by, 

That throb, Eliza, is thy part. 
And thine that latest sighl 



A FAREWELL TO THE BRETH- 
REN OF ST. JAMES' LODGE, 
, TORBOLTON. 

Tune—" Good night, and joy be wi' you a' ! " 

The poet is said to have chanted this " Fare- 
well" at a meeting- of St. James' Mason 
Lodge at Torbolton, while his chest was on 
the way to Greenock, and he had just 
written the last song he thought he should 
ever compose in Scotland. The person 
alluded to in the last stanza was Major- 
Generai James Montgomery, who was 
Worshipful Master, while Burns was 
Depute-Master. 

)IEU ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie ! 
!"e tavour'd, ye enlighten'd. few, 

Companions of my social joy ! 
Though I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba',^ 
With melting heart, and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, though far awa'. 

^Oft have I met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful, festive night; 
)ft, honour'd with supreme command, 
Presided o'er the sons of light: 
id, by that hieroglyphic bright, 
Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong memory on my heart shall 
write 
Those happy scenes when far awa'. 

c*^ freedom, harmony, and love, 
Uniif you in the grand design, 
meam the Omniscient eye above. 
The glorious Architect Divine ! 
hat you may keep the unerring line. 
Still rising by the plummet's law, 
^111 order bright completely shine, 
Shall be my prayer when far awa'. 

id you, farewell ! whose merits claim. 

Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 

[eaven bless your honour'd, noble 

name. 
To masonry and Scotia dear ! 
last request permit me here. 
When yearly ye assemble a', 
le round — I ask it with a tear — 
To him tht! Bard that's far awa'. 

' Slippery ball. 



THE SONS OF OLD KILLIB. 

Tune—" Shawnboy." 

Bums having been induced to participate ill 
the festivities of the Kilmarnock Mason 
Lodge, which was presided over by hia 
friend William Parker, produced the follow- 
ing appropriate song for the occasion :— 

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by 
Willie, 
To follow the noble vocation ; 
Your thrifty old mother has scarce 
such another 
To sit in that honoured station. 
I've little to say, but only to pray, 

As praying's the ton of your fashion: 
A prayer from the Muse you well may 
excuse, 
'Tis seldom her favourite passion. 

Ye powers who preside o'er the wind 
and the tide, 
Who marked each element's border; 
Who formed this frame with benefi- 
cent aim. 
Whose sovereign statute is order; 
Within this dear mansion may way- 
ward Contention 
Or withered Envy ne'er enter; 
May Secrecy round be the mystical 
bound. 
And Brotherly Love be the centra 1 



SONG. 



IN THE CHABACTER OF A RUINED 
FARMER. 

Tune—" Go from my window, love, do." 

The sun he is sunk in the west. 
All creatures retired to rest. 
While here I sit all sore beset 

With sorrow, grief, and wo; 
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O ! 

The prosperous man is asleep. 

Nor hears how the whirlwinds sweep; 

But Misery and I must watch 

The surly tempest blow: 
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O ! 

There lies the dear partner of my breast. 
Her cares for a moment at rest: 
Must I see thee, my youthful pride. 

Thus brought so very low J 
And it's O, fickle Fortune, Q\ 



BURNS' WORRS. 



There lie my sweet babies in her arms, 
No anxious fear their little heart 

alarms; 
But for their salce my heart doth ache, 
With many a bitter throe; 
And it's 0, fickle Fortune, O 1 

I once was by Fortune carest, 
I once could relieve the distrest: 
Now, life's poor support hardly earn'd. 
My fate will scarce bestow: 
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O ! 

No comfort, no comfort I have ! 
How welcome to me were the grave ! 
But then my wife and children dear, 

whither would they go ? 
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O ! 

whither, O whither shall I turn I 
All friendless, forsaken, forlorn ! 
For in this world Rest or Peace 

1 never more shall know ! 
AjiA it's 0, fickle Fortune, O 1 



THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE. 

Tune—" Miss Forkes' Farewell to Banff." 

The beautiful estate of Ballochmyle, which is 
situated on the Ayr, in the neighbourhood 
of Mauchline, was at this period of the po- 
et's life transferred from the family of the 
Whitefoords (whose d'eparture he has 
lamented in the lines on "The Braes of 
Ballochmyle") to Mr. Claud Alexander, a 
gentleman who had made a large fortune as 
paymaster-general of the East India Com- 
pany's troops at Bengal ; and having just 
taken up his residence at the mansion- 
house, his sister. Miss Wilhelmina Alexan- 
der, was one day walking out through the 
grounds, which appear to have been a fav- 
ourite haunt of Burns', when she accident- 
ally encountered him in a musing altitude, 
with his shoulder leaning against a tree. 
As the grounds were thought to be strictly 
private, the lady appears to have been 
somewhat startled ; but, having recovered 
herself , passed on, and thought no more of 
the matter. A short time afterwards, how- 
ever, she was reminded of the circumstance 
by receiving a letter from the poet, enclos- 
ing the song. " I had roved out," he says, 
'' as chance directed in the favourite haunts 
of my Mure, on the banks of the Ayr. to 
view nature in all the gayety of the vernal 
year. The evening sun was flaming over 
the distant western hills ; not a breath 
stirred the crimson opening blossom, or the 
verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden 
moment for a poetic heart. Such was the 
scene, and such wa& '^he hour— when, in a 



corner of my prospect, I spied one of the 
fairest pieces of Nature's workmanship that 
ever crowned a poetic landscape or met a 
poet's eye. The enclosed song was the 
work of my return home ; and perhaps it 
but poorly answers what might have been 
expected from such a scene." Much to the 
mortification of Burns, however, the lady 
took no notice of either the letter or the 
song, although she ultimately displayed a 
high sense of the honour which the genius 
of the poet had conferred on her. She died 
unmarried in 1843, at the age of eighty- 
eight. , 

'TwAS even — the dewy fields were 
green, 

On every blade the pearls hang, 
The zephyrs wanton 'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang; 
In every glen the mavis sang, 

All nature listening seem'd the while. 
Except where greenwood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward stray'd, 

My heart rejoiced in Nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanced to spy; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like Nature's vernal smile. 
Perfection whisper'd, passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild; 
When roving through the garden gav. 

Or wandering in the lonely wild: 
But woman, Nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does com- 
pile; 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Oh ! had she been a country maid. 

And I the happy country swain, 
Though shelter'd in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain: 
Through weary winter's wind and rain, 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil. 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle I 

Then pride might climb the slippery 

steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine^ 

And thirst of gold might tempt th« 

deep. 

Or downward seek the Indian mm% 



SONGS/ 



203 



6ive me the cot below tlie pine 
To tend the flocks, or till the soil, 

And every day have joys divine 

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 



THE BONNY BANKS OF AYR. 

Tune—" Roslin Castle." 

The gloomy night is gathering fast. 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast; 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure; 
While here I wander, prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The Autumn mourns her ripening corn, 
By early Winter's ravage torn; 
Across her placid, azure sky. 
She sees the scowling tempest fly: 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave — 
I think upon the stormy wave. 
Where many a danger I must dare. 
Far from the bonny banks of Ayr. 

'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
'Tis not the fatal, deadly shore; 
Though death in every shape appear. 
The wretched have no more to fear ! 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierced with many a 

wound; 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear. 
To leave the bonny banks of Ayr. . 

Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales; 
The scenes where wretch^ fancy 

roves, 
Pursuing past unhappy loves ! [foes ! 
Farewell, my friends ! farewell my 
My peace with these, my love with 

those — 
The bursting tears my heart declare; 
Farewell the bonny banks of Ayr ! 



THE BANKS OF DOON. 

FIRST VERSION. 

The following song relates to an incident in 
real life — an unhappy love tale. The unfor- 
tunate heroine was a beautiful and accom- 
plished woman, the daughter and heiress of 



a gentleman of fortune in Carrick. Having 
been deserted bv her lover, the son of a 
wealthy Wigtonshire porprietor, to whom 
she had born a child without the sanction of 
the Church, she is said to have died of a 
broken heart. The poet composed a second 
version of this song in 1792, for the Scots 
Musical Museum: but it lacks the pathos 
and simplicity of the present one. 

Ye flowery banks o' bonny Doon, 
How can ye bloom 'sae fair; 

How can ye chant, ye little birds. 
And I sae fu' o' care ! 

Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonny 
bird 

That sings upon the bough ; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days * 

When my fause love was true. 

Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonny 
bird 

That sings beside thy mate; 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 

And wist na o' my fate. 

Aft hae I roved fey bonny Doon, 
To see the woodbine twine; 

And ilka bird sang o' its love. 
And sae did I o' mine. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Frae off its thorny tree; 
And my fause luver staw^ the rose. 

But left the thorn wi' me. 



THE AMERICAN WAR. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Tune— "Killiecrankie." 

When Guildford good our pilot stood. 

And did our helm thraw,' man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea, ^ 

Within America, man: 
Then up they gat the maskin'-pat,* 

And in the sea did jaw,^* man; 
And did nae less, in f itll Congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 

1 Stole. 
1 Turn. 2 Teapot. 3 Throw. 
* The English Parliament having imposed 
an excise duty upon tea imported into North 
America, the East India Company sent several 
ships laden with that article to Boston ; but, 
on their arrival, the natives went on board by 
force of arms, and emptied all the tea into the 
sea. 



S04 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Then tlirough the lakes, Montgomeryf 
takes, 

I wat he wasna slaw, man! 
Pown Lowrie's burn | he took a turn. 

And Carleton did ca', man: 
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like § did fa', man: 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his en'mies a', man. 

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage, 

Was kept at Boston ha', man;| 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 

For Philadelphia, man; 
W^i' sword and gun he thought a sin 

Guid Christian bluid to draw, man ; 
But at New York, wi' knife and fork, 

Sir-loin he hacked sma', man.^ 

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur and whip. 

Till Fraser brave did fa', man; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day. 

In Saratoga shaw,^ man.** 
Cornwallis fought as long's he dought^ 

And did the buckskins claw, man: 
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save. 

He hung it to the wa', man. 

Then Montague, and Guildford too. 

Began to fear a fa', man; 
And Sackville doure,^ wha stood the 
stoure,' 

The German chief to thraw,^ man; 
For Paddy Burk, like ony Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man; 
And Charlie Fox threw by the box, 

And loosed his tinkler jaw.ff man.:j::J: 



* Would. 6 Could. « Stubborn. ' Dust. 
« Thwart. 

t General Montg-omery invaded Canada in 
1775, and took Monireal, the British general, 
Sir Guy Carleton, retiring before him. 

X A pseudonym for the St. Lawrence. 

§ A compliment to the poet's patrons, the 
Montgomeries of Coilsfield. 

II An allusion to General Gage's being be- 
sieged in Boston by General Washington. 

t Alluding to an inroad made by Howe, 
when a large number of cattle was destroyed. 

** An allusion to the surrender of General 
Burgoyne' s army at Saratoga. 

tt Free-spoken tongue. Tinkers are pro- 
verbial for their power of spef-h 

Jt By the union of Lord North and Mr. 
Fox, in 1783, the heads of the celebrated coa- 
lition, Lori Shelburne was compelled to re- 
sifiou 



Then Rockingham took up the game. 

Till death did on him ca', man; 
When Shelburne meek held up his 
cheek. 

Conform to gospel law, man ; 
Saint Stephen's boys wi' jarring noise, 

They did his measures thraw, man, 
For North and Fox united stocks. 

And bore him to the wa', man. 

Then clubs and hearts were Charlie's 
cartes, 

He swept the stakes awa', man. 
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race. 

Led him a sair /awa* pas, man; § § 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placards,' 

On Chatham's boy did ca', man; 
And Scotland drew her pipe, and blew, 

" Up, Willie, waur'o them a', man!" 

Behind the throne then Grenville'3 
gone, 

A secret word or twa, man; 
While slee Dundas aroused the class 

Be-north the Roman wa', man: 
And Chatham's wraith,^' in heavenly 
graith, 

(Inspired Bardies saw, man;) 
Wi' kindling eyes cried, "Willie, rise f 

" Would I hae fear'd them a', man f 

But, word and blow. North, Fox, and 
Co., 
Gowff'd^'^ Willie like a ba', man, 
Till Suthrons raise, and coost'^ theil 
claes 
Behind him in a raw, man; 
And Caledon threw by the drone. 

And did her whittle^'* draw, man; 
And swoor fa' rude, through dirt and 
bluid. 
To make it guid in law, man. 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDT. 

Tune—" The Birks of Aberfeldy." 

The poet tells us he composed this song on a 
visit which he paid to the beautiful falls of 



9 Cheers. '<> Beat. " Ghost. 

'» Knocked him about. The phrase properly 
reicrs to the game of polf. ^^ Dofi^^ 
14 Ktt •> 

§§ An allusion to Mr. Fox's India Bill, wlliDti 
threw him out of office in December, ijBi^ 



SONGS. 



Tffftf 



Moness, at Aberfeldy, in Perthshire, whi'e 
on his way to Inverness. The air is old and 
sprightly. 

BoNTTY lassie, will ye go. 
Will ye go, will ye go; 
Bonny lassie, will ye go 
To the birks' of Aberfeldy? 

Kow simmer blinks* on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays; 
Come, let us spend the lightsome days 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

While o'er their heads the hazels hing 
The little birdies blithely sing, 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

The braes ascend, like lofty wa's. 
The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's, 
O' erhung wi' fragrant spreading 
shaws,^ 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flow- 
ers. 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours. 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 

Let Fortune's gifts at random flee. 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me. 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 



THE BONNY LASS OF ALBANY. 

Tune — '^ Mary's Dream." 

" The following song," says Chambers, " is 

gnnted from a manuscript book in Burns' 
and-writmg in the possession of Mr. B. 
Nightingale of London." The heroine was 
the natural daughter of Prince Charles Ed- 
ward, by Clementina Walkinshaw, with 
whom, it is well known, he lived for many 
years. The Prince afterwards caused her 
to be legitimated by a deed of the parlia- 
ment of Paris in 1787, and styled her the 
Duchess of Albany. 

My heart is wae, and unco wae,^ 
To think upon the raging sea 
That roars between her gardens green 
And the boii^y lass of Albany. 



This lovely maid's of royal blood 
That ruled Albion's kingdoms three, 
But oh, alas! for her bonny face. 
They've wrangd the Lass of Albany. 

In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde 
There sits an isle of high degree. 
And a town of fame whose princely 

name 
Should grace the Lass of Albany. 

But there's a youth, a witless youth, 
That fills the place where she should 

be; 
We'll send him o'er to his native shore. 
And bring our ain sweet Albany. 

Alas the day, and wo the day, 
A false usurper won the gree^ 
Who now commands the towers and 

lands — 
The royal right of Albany. 

We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pray. 
On bended knees most fervently. 
The time may come, with pipe an 1 

drum. 
We'll welcome hame fair Albany. 



^ Birches— Dirchwood. 
•Woods. 

>Sad. 



Oiances. 



LADY ONLIE. 

Tune— "Rufifian's Rant." 
A' the lads o' Thorniebank, [Bucky,* 

When they gae to the shore o* 
They'll step in and tak a pint 

Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky!' 

Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 

Brews guid ale at shore o' Bucky; 
I wish her sale for her guid ale. 

The best on a' the shore o' Bucky. 

Her house sae bien,' her curch^ sae 
clean, 

I wat she is a dainty chucky ;^ 
And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed' 

Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky! 

Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 

Brews guid ale at shore o' Bucky; 
I -wish her sale for her guid ale, 

The best on a' the shore o' Bucky. 



* Superiority. 
' Buckhaven. ' Goodwife. ^ Well-filled 
* Kerchief— a covering for the head. ^ Ocw. 
'^ Blazing fire. 



^ 



BURNS' WORKS 



BLITHE WAS SHE. 

Tune—" Andrew and his Cutty Gun." 
Blithe, blithe, and merry was she, 
Blithe was she butt and ben:* 
Blithe by the banks of Earn, 
And blithe in Glenturit glen. 

By Auchtertyre grows the aik,' 

On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;^ 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 

Her looks were like a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn; 

She tripped by the banks of Earn, 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 

Her bonny face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lea; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet, 

As was the blink o' Phemie's ee. 

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide. 
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been; 

But Phemie was the blithest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 



M^NNY DUNDEE. 
Tune—" Bonny Dundee." 

This song ajjpeared in the first volume of the 
Museum. The second verse alone is Bums', 
the first having been taken from a very old 
homely ditty. 

Oh, whare did ye get that hauver' 
meal bannock ? [ see ? 

Oh, silly blind body, oh, dinna ye 
I gat it frae a brisk young sodger lad- 
die, [Dundee. 
Between Saint Johnston and bonny 
Oh gin I saw the laddie that gae me't! 
Aft has he doudled^ me upon his 
knee; [laddie. 
May Heaven protect my bonny Scots 
And send him safe hame to his baby 
and me! 

My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie. 
My blessin's upon thy bonny eebree! 

Thy smiles are sae like my blithe 

sodger laddie, [me! 

Thou's aye be dearer and dearer to 

» In kitchen and parlour, a Qak. s Birch- 
^ioods. 

»Oat. "Dandlei 



But I'll big a bower on yon bonny 

banks, [clear; 

Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae 

And I'll dead thee in the tartan sae 

fine, [dear. 

And mak the a man like thy daddie 



THE JOYFUL WIDOWER. 

Tune—" Maggy Lauder." I 

I MARRIED with a scolding wife. 

The fourteenth of November; 
She made me weary of my life 

By one unruly member. 
Long did I bear the heavy yoke. 

And many griefs attended; 
But, to my comfort be it spoke. 

Now, now her life is ended. 

We lived full one-and-twenty years 

As man and wife together; 
At length from me her course sh« 
steer'd, 

And's gone I know not whither: 
Would I could guess. I do profess, 

I speak, and do not flatter. 
Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 

Her body is bestowed well, 

A handsome grave does hide her; 
But sure her soul is not in hell, 

The deil could ne'er abide her. 
I rather think she is aloft. 

And imitating thunder; 
For why, methinks I hear her voice 

Tearing the clouds asunder. 



I 



A ROSEBUD BY MY EARLY 
WALK. 

Tune—" The Rosebud." 

This song was composed in honour of the 

f^oung lady to whom the poet addressed the 
mes beginning, " Beauteous rosebud, 
young and gay." She was Miss Jenny 
Cruikshank, daughter of Mr. William 
Cruikshank, one of the masters of the Higli 
School of Edinburgh. 

A ROSEBUD by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,* 
Sae gently bent its tlioray stalk. 
All on a dewy morning. 



» An open space in a cornfield. 



fSOMS. 



901 



Ere twice tlie shades o' dawn are fled. 
In a* its crimson glory spread 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 
It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 

Sae early in the morning. 
She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd. 

Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jenny fair ! 
On trembling string, or vocal air. 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 

That tends thy early morning. 
So thou, sweet rosebud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 

That watch'd thy early morning. 



BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S 
STORMS. 

Tune— *' Neil Gow's Lamentation for Aber- 
cairny." 

fhe two following songs were written in 
praise of Miss Margaret Chalmers, a relative 
of the poet's friend, Mr. Gavin Hamilton. 

Where, braving angry Winter's 
storms, 

The lofty Ochils rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes; 
As one who by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam. 

With art's most polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild sequester'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour. 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd, 

When first I felt their power! 
The tyrant Death, with grim control, 

May seize my fleeting breath; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



MY PEGGY'S FACE. 

Tune—" My Peggy's Face." 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 
The frost of hermit age might warm ; 



My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind. 
Might charm l^lie first of humankind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air. 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair. 
Her native grace so void of art. 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye; 
Who but owns their magic sway 1 
Who but knows they all decay t 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear. 
The generous purpose, nobly dear. 
The gentle look, tliat rage disarm*— 
These are all immortal charms. 



THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. 

Tune—" Bhanarach dhonn a chruidh." 

" These verses," says Burns, in his notes ift 
the Musical Museunt^ "• were composed on 
a charming girl, Miss Charlotte Hamilton, 
who is now married to James M. Adair, 
physician. She is sister to my worthy friend 
Gavin Hamilton of Mauchline, and was 
born on the banks of the Ayr ; but was, at 
the time I wrote these lines, residing at 
Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, on the 
romantic banks of the little river Devon. * 
The poet, it has been said, wished to be 
something more than a mere admirer c£ 
this young lady ; but 

" Meg was ..eaf as Ailsa Craig ;" 

for the music of his lyre appears to have 
fallen on ears that would not charm. 

HoV pleasant the banks of the clear- 
winding Devon, 
With green-spreading bushes, and 
flowers blooming fair! 
But the bonniest flower on the banks of 
t the Devon [of the Ayr. 

Was once a sweet bud on the brae« 

Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushing 

flower, [in the dew ! 

In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal 

shower, [to renew. 

That steals on the evening each leaf 

Oh, spare the dear blossom, ye orient 

breezes, [the dawn ! 

With chill hoary wing, as ye ushet 

And far be thou distant, thou reptiPj, 

that seizes [and lawal 

The verdure and pride of thegaide^^ 



SOS 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Let Bourbon exult in liis gay gilded 

lilies, [lier proud rose! 

And England, triumphant, display 

A fairer than either adorns the green 

valleys [dering flows. 

Where Devon, sweet Devon, mean- 



MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. 

I Tune — " M'Pherson's Rant.' 

This fine sone, which Lockhart terms " a 
grand lyric, and Carlyle "■ a wild, stormful 
sons', that dwells in ear and mind with 
strange tenacity," was designed by the poet 
as an improvement of a well-known old 
ditty entitled, " Macpherson's Lament," 
and which is said to have been written by a 
Highland freebooter a night or two before 
his execution. As this hero's history con- 
tains some elements of interest, we borrow 
the following account of him from Mr. Rob- 
ert Chambers' recent edition of the poet's 
works : — " James Macpherson was a noted 
Highland freebooter of uncommon per- 
sonal strength, and an excellent performer 
on the violin. After holding the counties of 
Aberdeen, Banff, and Moray in fear for 
some years, he was seized by Duff of Braco, 
ancestor of the Earl of Fife, and tried before 
the sheriff of Banffshire, (November 7, 1700) 
along with certain gipsies who had been 
taken in his company. In the prison, while 
he lay under sentence of death, he com- 
posed a song and an appropriate air, the 
lormer commencing thus . — 

• I've spent my time in rioting, 

Debaucli'd my health and strength ; 
I squander'd fast as pillage came, 
And fell to shame at length. 
But dantonly, and wantonly. 

And rantingly I'll gae ; 
ril play a tune, and dance it roun' 
Beneath the gallows-tree.' 

When brought to the place of execution, on 
the Gallows-hill of Banff, (Nov. 16) he 
played the tune on his violin, and then 
asked if any friend was present who would 
accept the instrument as a gift at his h^ds. 
No one coming forward, he indignantly 
broke- the violin on his knee, and threw 
away the fragments ; after which he sub- 
mitted to his fate. The traditionary accounts 
of Macpherson's immense prowess are justi- 
fied by his sword, which is still preserved 
in Duff House, at Banff, and )s an imple- 
ment of great length and weight— as well 
as his bones, which were found a few years 
ago, and were allowed by all who saw them 
to be much stronger than the bones of or«- 
dinary men." 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and 
strong, 

The wretch's destinie! 
Macpherson's time will not be long 

On yonder gallows-tree. 



Sae rantingly, sae wantopiy, 
Sae dauntingly gaed he; 

He play'd a spring, and danced V 
round, 
Below the gallows-tree. 

Oh ! what is death but parting breath?- 

On mony a bloody plain 
I've dared his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again! 

Untie these bands from off my hands 
And bring to me my sword ! 

And there's no a man in all Scotland 
But I'll brave him at a word. 

I've lived a life of sturt and strife; 

I die by treacherie. 
It burns my heart I must depart 

And not avenged be. 

Now farewell light — thou sunshina 
bright, 

And ail beneath the sky 1 
May coward shame distain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die I 



WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO 
rOU, MY LAD. 

This version of an old fragment ihe poet 
composed for the second volume of the 
Museum ; but he afterwards altered and 
extended it for Thomson's collection. 

Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you, my 
lad; [lad- 

Oh, whistle, and I'll come to 3-ou, my 

Though father and mother should baith 
gae mad, [lad. 

Oh, whistle, and I'll come 10 you, my 

Come down the back stairs when ye 

come to court me; 
Come down the back stairs when ye 

come to court me; [naebody see. 

Come down the back stairs and let 
And come as ye werena coming to m«- 



STAY, MY CHARMER. 

Tune—" An Gille dubh ciar dhubn.'' 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ! 

Cruel, cruel to deceive me? [me; 

Well you know how much you grievj 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 



SONGS. 



201 



By my love so ill requited; 

By the faitli you fondly plighted; 

By the pangs of lovers slighted, 
Do not, do not leave me so 1 
Do not, do not leave me so I 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

/RTilliam, fourth Viscount of Strathallan, whom 
the poet celebrates in these hnes, fell on the 
rebel side at CuUoden in 1746. The poet, 
perhaps ignorant of this fact, speaks of him 
as having survived the battle, and fled for 
safety to some mountain fastness. 

'"rniCKEST night, o'erhang my dwelling! 

Howling tempests, o'er me rave ! 
1'urbid torrents, wintry swelling, 

Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind. 

Western breezes softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engaged, 
Wrongs injurious to redress, 

■^^onour's war we strongly waged, 
But the heavens denied success. 

Farewell, fleeting, fickle treasure, 
'Tween Misfortune and Folly shared ! 

Farewell Peace, and farewell Pleasure ! 
Farewell flattering man's regard ! 

Ituin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
Not a hope that dare attend, 

The wide world is all before us- 
But a world without a friend -' 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 

Tune—" Morag." 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes. 

The snaw tiie mountains cover; 
Like winter on me seizes, 

Since my young Highland rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 

May Heaven be his warden; 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey 

And bonny Castle-Gordon ! 

The trees now naked groaning, 
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, 

The birdies dowie^ moaning, 
Shall a' be blithely singing, 

1 Sadly. 



And every flower be springing. 
Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, 

When by his mighty warden 
My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey. 

And bonny Castle-Gordon. 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HEB 
BLOWING. 

Tune—" Macgrego^of Ruara's Lament." 

" I composed these verses," says Bums, " on 
Miss Isabella M'Leod of Raasay, alluding to 
her feelings on the death of her sister, and 
the still more melancholy death of her 
sister's husband, the late Earl of Loudon, 
who shot himself out of sheer heartbreak at 
some mortification he suffered from the 
deranged state of his finances." 

Raving winds around her blowing. 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing. 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray 'd deploring: — 
" Farewell hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; 
Hail thou gloomy night of sorrow. 
Cheerless night that knows no mrrrrow! 

" O'er the past too fondly wandering. 
On the hopeless future pondering; 
Chilly Grief my life-blood freezes. 
Fell Despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing-. 
Load to Misery most distressingi 
Oh, how gladly I'd resign thee. 
And to dark oblivion join thee I ** 



MUSING ON THE ROARmG 
OCEAN. 

Tune — " Druimion Dubh." 

"I composed these verses," says the poet, 
" out of compliment to a Mrs. Maclachlan, 
whose husband was an officer in the East 
Indies." 

Musing on the roaring ocean. 
Which divides my love and me; 

Wearying Heaven in warm devotion. 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and Fear's alternate billow 
Yielding late to Nature's law; 

Whispering spirits round my pillow 
Talk of him that's far awa'. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded. 

Ye who never shed a tear, 
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded. 

Gaudy Day to you is dear. 



Jlid 



BtTRNS» WORKS. 



Gentle Night, do thou befriend me; 

Downy Sleep, the curtain draw; 
Spirits kind, again attend me, — ■ 

Talk of him that's far awa' I 



BONNY PEGGY ALISON. 

Tune—" Braes o" Balquhidder." 

I'll kiss thee ^t, yet, 

And I'll kiss thee o'er again; 

And I'll kiss the yet, yet, 
My bonny Peggy Alison ! 

Hk care and fear, when thou art near, 

I ever mair defy them, O; 
Young kings upon their hansel^ throne 

Are nae sae blest as I am, ! 

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 
I clasp my countless treasure 0, 

I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share. 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O ! 

And by thy een, sae bonny blue, 
I swear I'm thine for ever, ! — 

And on thy lips I seal my vow, 
And break it shall I never, O 1 



THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT, 

Tune—" Captain O'Kean." 

* Yesterday," wrote Burns to his friend Cleg- 
horn, "as I was riding through a tract of 
melancholy, joyless moors, between Gallo- 
way and Ayrshire, it being Sunday, I 
turned my thoughts to psalms, and hymns 
and spiritual songs ; and your favourite air, 
' Captain O'Kean,' commgat length into my 
head, I tried these wprds to it. I am toler- 
ably pleased with the verses ; but as I have 
only a sketch of the tune, I leave it with you 
to try if they suit the measure of the music." 
Cleghorn answered that the words 
dehghted him, and fitted the tune exactly. 
" 1 wish," added he, " that you would send 
me a verse or two more; and, if you have 
no objection, I would have it in the Jacobite 
style. Suppose it should be sung after the 
fatal field of Culloden, by the unfortunate 
Charles." The poet took his friend's advice, 
and infused a Jacobite spirit into the first 
verse as well as the second. 

The small birds rejoice in the green 
leaves returning- 
The murmuring streamlet winds 
through the vale; 



The hawthorn trees blow, in the dew 
of the morning. 
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck 
the green dale; 
But what can give pleasure, or what 
can seem fair. 
While the lingering moments are 
number'd by care? 
No flowers gayly springing, nor birds 
sweetly singing, [despair. 

Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless 

The deed that I dared, could it merit 
their malice, [his throne t 

A king, and a father, to place on 
His right are these hills, and his right 
are these valleys, 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, 
but I can find none : 
But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretch- 
ed, — forlorn, 
My brave gallant friends ! 'tis your 

ruin I mourn; 
Your deeds proved so loyal in hot 
bloody trial — 
Alas I can I make you no sweeter return? 



1 New-won, 



OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIJTl) CAN 
BLAW. 

Tune—'' Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey. 

" I composed this song," says the poet, " oLt 
of compliment to Mrs. Burns, during out 
honeymoon.'" 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west. 
For there the bonny lassie lives. 

The lassie I lo'e best*. [row,* 

There wild woods grow, and riveri 

And mony a hill between; 
But day and night, my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

1 see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' 1t)ird«, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonny flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw,^ or green, 
There's not a msnny bird that sings. 

But minds me o' my Jean.* 



1 Roll. 2 Wood. 

* The two following stanzas were writtea 
some years afterwards, by Mr. John Hamilton^ 
music-seller, Edinburgh, and from, theur swi»> 



BOTTCTS. 



«ll 



OH, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' 
HILL. 

Tune—" My love is lost to me." 

This song was also produced in honour of 
Mrs. Burns, shortly before she took up her 
residence at Ellisland as the poet's wife. It 
is thought to have been composed while he 
was one day gazing towards the hill of 
Corsmcon, at the head of Nithsdale, and 
beyond which, though at some distance, 
was the quiet vale where lived his '* bonny 
Jean." 

Oh, were I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my fill; 
That I might catch poetic skill 

To sing how des^r I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my Muse's well, 
My Muse maun be thy bonny sel; 
On Corsincon I glower' and spell. 

And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day 
I couldna sing, I couldna say. 

How much, how dear, I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green, 
Thy waist see jimp,^ thy limbs sae 

clean, ^ 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth I love thee ! 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame. 
The thoughts o' thee m> breast inflame; 
And aye I muse and sing thy name — 

I only live to love thee. 
Though I were doom'd to wander on 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
Till my last weary sand was run; 

Till then — and then I'd love thee. 



1 Stare. 



2 Small. 



" Well-Shaped. 



plicity and beauty are really worthy of form- 
ing the corollary to this fine song :— 

" Oh, blaw, ye westlin' winds, blaw saft 

Amang the leafy trees, 
Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale, 

Bring hame the laden bees ; 
And bring the lassie back to me 

That's aye sae neat and clean ; 
Ae smile o' her wad banish care, 

Sae charming is my Jean. 

"'What sighs and vows amang the knowes 

Hae pass'd atween us twa ! 
How fond to meet, how wae to part. 

That night she gaed awa' ! 
The powers aboon can only ken, 

To whom the heart is seen. 
That nane can be sae dear to me 

As my sweet lovely Jean ! " 
The two following were a\so written as an 
•ddition to this song by Mr. William Rcid, of 



THE FETE CHAMPETRE. 

Tune—" Killiecrankie." 

The poet's brother, Gilbert Burns, gives the 
following account of the origin of this 
ballad :— '' When Mr. Cunninghame of 
Enterkin came to his estate, two mansion- 
houses on it, Enterkin and Annbank, wer« 
both in a ruinous state. Wishing to intro- 
duce himself with some ec/ai to the county, 
he got temporary erections made on the 
banks of the Ayr, tastefully decorated with 
shrubs and flowers, for a supper and ball, to 
which most of the respectable families in the 
county were invited. It was a novelty in the 
county, and attracted much notice. A dis- 
solution of parliament was soon expected, 
and this festivity was thought to be an 
introduction to a canvass for representing 
the county. Several other candidates were 
spoken of, particularly Sir John Whitefoord, 
then residing at Cloncaird. commonly pro- 
nounced Glencaird, and Mr. Boswell, the 
well-known biographer of Dr. Johnson. 
The political views of this festive assem- 
blage, which are alluded to in the ballad, if 
they ever existed, were, however, laid aside 
as Mr. Cunninghame did not canvass the 
county." 

Oh, wlia will to Saint Stephen's house, 

To do our errands there, man ? 
Oh, wlia will to Saint Stephen's house, 

O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man? 
Or will we send a man-o*-law ? 

Or will we send a sodger ? 
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a* 

The meikle^ Ursa-Major ? 

Come, will ye court a noble lord. 
Or buy a score o' lairds, man ? 

For worth and honour pawn their word. 
Their vote shall be Glencaird's man ? 



1 Great. 

the firm of Brash & Reid , booksellers,Glasgow, 
and have sometimes been printed as the 
poet's :— 

" Upon the banks o' flowing Clyde 

The lassies busk^ them braw ; 
But when their best they hae put on. 

My Jennie dings^ them a' : 
In hamely weeds she far exceeds 

The fairest o' the town 1 
Baith sage and ^ay confess it sae. 

Though drest in russet gown. 

" The gamesome lamb, that sucks its dam, 

Mair harmless canna be ; 
She has nae faut, (if sic ye ca't,) 

Except her love for me: 
The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue, 

Is like her shining een : 
In shape and air nane can compare 

Wi' my sweet lovely Jean." 



Dress. 



2 Excels 



312 



BURNS* WORKS 



Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, 
Anither gies them clatter -^ 

Annbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste, 
He gives a Fete Champetre. 

"When Love and Beauty heard the news, 

The gay greenwoods amang, man; 
Where gathering flowers and busking^ 
J bowers, [man; 

They heard the blackbird's sang, 
A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss, 

Sir Politics to fetter, 
As theirs alone, the patent-bliss, 

To hold a Fete Champetre. 

Then mounted Mirth,cngleesome wing. 

O'er hill and dale sl^e flew, man; 
Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring. 

Ilk glen and shaw*she knew, mar. 
She summon'd every social sprite, 

That sports by wood or water. 
On the bonny banks of Ays to me-^t-. 

And keep this Fete Champetre. 

Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew. 

Were bound to stakes like kye,^ man, 
And Cynthia's car, o' silver f u*. 

Clamb up the starry sky, man; 
Reflected beams dwell in the streams. 

Or down the current shatter; 
The western breeze steals through the 
trees 

To view this Fete Champetre. 

How many a robe sae gayly floats! 

What sparkling jewels glance, man! 
To Harmony's enchanting iiotes. 

As moves the mazy dance, man. 
The echoing wood, the winding flood, 

Like paradise did glitter. 
When angels met, at Adam's yett,^ 

To hold their Fete Champetre. 

When Politics came there, to mix 
And make his ether-stane, man! 

He circled round the magic ground, 
But entrance found he nane, man:* 



He blush'd for shame, he quat hia 
name. 

Foreswore it, every letter, 
Wi' humble prayer to join and shara 

This festive Fete Champetre. 



THE DAY RETURNS. 

Tune—" Seventh of November." 

In a letter to Miss Chalmers, an intimate fe- 
male friend of the poet's, he says regarding 
this song :— " One of the most tolerable 
things I have done for some time is these 
two stanzab I made to an air a musical gen* 
tleman of my acquaintance [Captain Riddel 
t f Glennddel] composed for the anniver 
/ »ary of his wedding day." 

ji '^HE day returns, my bosom bums, 
The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Though Winter wild in tempest toil'd. 
Ne'er Summer sun was half sae 
sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide. 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and 
globes, [mine ! 

Heaven gave me more — it made thee 

"VMiile day and night can bring delight. 

Or nature aught of pleasure give. 
While joys above my mind can move. 

For thee, and thee alone, I live 1 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part, 
The iron hand that breaks our band 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks my 
heart. 



2 Talk. 8 Dressing. < Wood. « Cattle. 
^ Gate. 

* " Alluding to a superstition," says Cham- 
bers, " which represents adders as forming 
annually from their slough certain little an- 
nular stones of streaked colouring, which 
are occasionally found, and the real origin 
of which is supposed by antiquaries to be 
pruidical." 



THE DISCREET HINT. 

" Lass when your mither is frae hame^ 

May I but be sae bauld 
As come to your bovrer window. 

And creep in frae the cauld ? 
As come to your bower window. 

And when it 's cauld and wat. 
Warm me in thy fair bosom — 

Sweet lass, may I do that ? " 

"Young man, gin ye should be sai 
kind, 

Wlien our gudewife's frae hame. 
As come to my bower window, 

Whare I am laid mj lane. 



SONGS. 



213 



T3 warm thee in my bosom — 
Take tent,i I'll tell thee what, 

The way to me lies through the kirk — 
Young man, do ye hear that ? " 



THE LAZY MIST. 

TuKE— '* Here's a health to my true love." 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow 

of the hill, [winding rill ! 

Concealing the course of the dark- 
How languid the scenes, late so 

sprightly, appear, [year. 

As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale 
The forests are leafless, the meadows 

are brown, [flown : 

And all the gay foppery of Summer is 
Apart let me wander, apart let me 

muse, [Fate pursues ! 

How quick Time is flying, how keen 

How long I have lived — ^but how much 
lived in vain, [remain ! 

How little of life's scanty span may 

What aspects old Time, in his pro- 
gress, has worn, [torn ! 

What ties, cruel Fate in my bosom has 

How foolish, or worse, till our summit 
is gain'd ! 

And downward, how weaken'd, how 
darken'd, how pained ! 

This life's not worth having with all 
it can give — [sure must live. 

For something beyond it poor man 



I HAE A WIFE 0' MY AIN. 

Tune—" Naebody." 

The following sprightly lines were written 
shortly after the poet had welcomed home 
his wife to his new house on the farm of 
Ellisland — the first winter he spent in which 
he has described as the happiest of his life. 

I HAE a wife o' my ain — 

I'll partake wi' naebody 
I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 

I'll gie cuckold to naebody. 
I hae a penny to spend, 

There — thanks to naebody ; 
I hae naething to lend — 

I'll borrow frae naebody. 



» Heed. 



I am naebody's lord — 

I'll be slave to naebody : 
I hae a guid braid sword, 

I'll tak dunts ^ frae naebody ; 
I'll be merry and free, 

I'll be sad for naebody ; 
If naebody care for me, 

I'll care for naebody. 



AULD LANG SYNE. ^ 

Burns has described this as an old song" ancf 
tune which had often thrilled through his 
soul : and m communicating it to his friend, 
George Thomson, he professed to have re- 
covered it from an old man's smgmg; and 
exclaimed regarding it :— " Light be the 
turf on the breast of the Heaven-inspired 
poet who composed this glorious frag- 
ment !" The probability is, however, that 
the poet was indulging in a little mystifica- 
tion on the subject, and that the entire sonff 
was his own composition. The second and 
third verses— describing the happy days ot 
youth— are his beyond a doubt. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
And never brought to min' ? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
And days o' lang syne ? 

For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne ! 

We twa hae run about the braes. 
And pu'd the gowans fine ; 

But we've wander'd mony a weary foot 
Sin' auld lang syne. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the bum, 
Frae morning sun till dine : 

But seas between us braid hae roar*(i 
Sin* auld lang syne , 

And here's a hand my trusty fiere,* 

And gies a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid willie. 
waught,'-^ 

For auld lang syne ! 

And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup. 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 
For auld lang syne. 

. — < 

» Blows. 
^ Friend. * Draught. 



Sll 



BURNS' WORKS. 



MY BONNY MARY. 

TuNB— " Go fetch to me a pint o' wine." 

The first four lines of this song are from an 
old ballad composed in 1636, by Alexander 
Lesly of Edin, on Doveran side, grand- 
father to the celebrated Archbishop Sharpe 
— the rest are Burns'. 

Go fetch to n^e a pint o' wine. 

And fill it in a silver tassie/ 
That I may drink, before I go, 

A service to my bonny lassie; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the 
ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun leave my bonny Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly. 

The glittering spears are ranked 
ready; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody. 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry; 
Nor shout o' war that's heard afar — 

It's leaving thee, my bonny Mary. 



MY HEART WAS ANCE AS 
BLITHE AND FREE. 

Tune — " To the weaver's gin ye go." 

The chorus of this song is taken from a very 
old ditty— the rest is the production of the 
poet. 

My heart was ance as blithe and free 
As simmer days were lang, 

But a bonny westlin' weaver lad 
Has gart me change my sang. 

To the weavers gin ye go, fair 
maids, 
To the weavers gin ye go; 
I rede^ you right, gang ne'er at 
night, 
To the weavers gin ye go. 

^ly mither sent me to the town. 

To warp^ a plaiden wab; 
But the weary, weary warpin' o't 

Has gart^ me sigh and sab. 

A bonny westlin' weaver lad 
Sat working at his loom; 



»Cup. 
Warn. ' Prepare for the loom. ' Made. 



He took my heart as wi' a net. 
In every knot and thrum.* 

I sat beside my warpin'-wheel. 

And aye I ca'd it roun'; 
But every shot and every knock. 

My heart it gae a stoun.^ 

The moon was sinking in the west 1 
Wi' visage pale and wan, ' 

As my bonny westlin' weaver lad 
Convey 'd me through the glen. 

But what was said, or what was done; 

Shame fa' me gin I tell; 
But, oh ! I fear the kintra® soon 

Will ken as weel's mysel. 



BRAW LADS OF GALA WATER. 

Tune—" Gala Water." 

The air and chorus of this song are both very 
old. This version Burns wrote for the 
Scois Musical Museum ; but he was so en- 
amoured with the air, that he afterwards 
wrote another set of words to it for his 
friend Thomson, which will be found at p. 
250. 

Br AW, braw lads of Gala Water; 

Oh, braw lads of Gala Water: 
I'll kilt^ my coats aboon my knee, 

And follow my love through 
the water. 

Sae fair her hair, sae brenf^ her brow, 
Sae bonny blue her een, my dearie; 

Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her 
mou', 
The mair I kiss she's aye my dearie. 

O'er yon bank and o'er yon brae, 
O'er yon moss amang the heather; 

I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 
And follow my love through the 
water. 

Down amang the broom, the broom, 
Down amang the broom, my dearie, 

The lassie lost her silken snood,* 
That cost her mony a blirt and 
bleary. 3 



< Thread. » Start. « Country. 

1 Tuck up and fix. 2 High and smooth. 
3 Sigh and tear. 

* The snood or ribband with which a Scot 
tish lass braided her hair had an emblematical 
signification, and applied to her maiden char.^ 
acter. It was exchanged for the curch^ toy^ or 
coi/y when she passed by marriage into tb« 



t50Na». 



SI8 



HER DADDIE FORBAD. 

Tune— " Jumpin' John." 
Her daddie forbad, lierminnie forbad; 

Forbidden she wouldna be: [brew'd' 
She wadna trow't the browst she 

Wad taste sae bitterlie 

The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 

Beguiled the bonny lassie, 
The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 

Beguiled the bonny lassie. 

A cow and a calf, a ewe and a hauf, 
Andthretty guid shillin's and three; 

A very guid tocher,^ a cotter- man's 
dochter. 
The lass with the bonny black ee. 



HEY, THE DUSTY MILLER. 

Tune—" The Dusty Miller." 

Hey the dusty miller. 

And his dusty coat; 

He "«yill win a shilling 

Or he spend a groat. 

Dusty was the coat, 

Dusty was the colour. 
Dusty was the kiss 
I got f rae the miller. 

Hey, the dusty miller; 
And his dusty sack; 
Leeze me on the calling 
Fills the dusty peck. 
Fills the dusty peck, 

Brings the dusty siller; 
I wad gie my coatie 
For the dusty miller. 



THENIEI MENZIE'S BONNY 
MARY. 

Tune—" The Ruffian's Rant." 

In coming by the brig o' Dye, 
At Darlet we a blink did tarry; 

As day was dawin in the sky. 

We drank a health to bonny Mary. 

1 She wouldn't believe the drink she brew'd. 
9 Dower. 

matron state. But if the damsel was so unfor- 
tunate as to loose pretensions to the name of 
maiden without gaining a right to that of 
matron, she was neither permitted to use the 
snood nor advance to the graver dignity of 
the curch.— Scott. 



Theniel Menzie's bonny Mary, 
Theniel Menzie's bonny Mary, 

Charlie Gregor tint' his pladie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonny Mary. 

Her een sae bright, her brow sae white. 
Her haffet^ locks as brown's a berry 

And aye they dimpFt wi' a smile, 
The rosy cheeks o' bonny Mary. 

We lap and danced the lee-lang day. 
Till piper lads were wae and weary 

But Charlie gat the spring to pay. 
For kissin' Theniel's bonny Mary. 



WEARY FA' YOTT, DUNCAN 
GRAY. 

Tune — " Duncan Gray." 

This first version of an old song was wnttcH 
for the Museum. The poet afterwards com-, 
posed another and better version for the 
collection of his friend Thomson, which wili 
be found at p. 243. 

Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray— 

Ha, ha, the girdin'' o't ! 
Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray— 

Ha, ha; the girdin' o't ! 
When a' the lave"^ gae to their play. 
Then I maun sit the lee-lang day. 
And jog the cradle wi' my tae. 

And a' for the girdin' o't. 

Bonny was the Lammas moon — 
Ha, ha, the girdin' o't ! ' 

Glowerin' a' the hills aboon — 
Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 

The girdin' brak, the beast cam down. 

I tint^ my curch^ and baith my shoon— 

Ah ! Duncan, ye're an unco loon — 
. Wae on the bad girdin' o't ! 

But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith, 

Ha, ha, the girdin' o't ! [breath— 

I'se bless you wi' my hindmost 

Ha, ha, the girdin' o't ! 
Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith — 
The beast again can bear us baith. 
And auld Mess John will mend tha 
skaith,^ 
And clout^ the bad girdin' o't. 



» Lost. 2 Tempts. 
1 Binding. 2 Others. 3 Lost. * Cap. * Harok 
« Patch up. 



216 



BURNS' WORKS. 



THE PLOUGHMAN. 

Tune— "Up with the ploughman." 

The fourth and fifth verses only of this piece 
are by Burns, the remainder by some older 
writer. 

The ploughman lie's a bonny lad. 

His mind is ever true, jo; 
His garters knit below liis knee, 

His bonnet it is blue, jo. 

Then up wi' my ploughman lad, 
And hey my merry ploughman ! 

Of a' the trades that I do ken, 
Commend me to the ploughman ! 

My ploughman he comes hame at e'en, 

He's aften wat and weary; 
Cast aff the wat, put on the dry. 

And gae to bed, my dearie ! 

I will wash my ploughman's hose. 
And I will dress his o'erlay;' 

I will mak my ploughman's bed. 
And cheer him late and early. 

I hae been east, I hae been west, 
1 hae been at Saint Johnston ; 

The bonniest sight that e'er I saw 
Was the ploughman laddie dancin'. 

Snaw-white stockin's on his legs. 
And siller buckles glancin'; 

A guid blue bonnet on his head — 
And oh, but he was handsome ! 

Commend me to the barn yard, 

And the corn-mou,* man; 
I never gat my coggie fou, 

Till I met wi' the ploughman. 



LANDLADY, COUNT THE LAWIN. 

Tune—" Hey Tutti, Taiti." 

The first two verses of this song were sup- 
plied by Burns; the others belong to a polit- 
ical ditty of earlier date. 

Landlady, count the lawin 
The day is near the dawin , 



* Cravat. 

' Reckoning. 

* The recess left in the stack of corn in the 
barn *s the sheaves are removed to the thrash- 
isig floor. 



Ye're a' blind drunk, boys. 
And I'm but jolly fou.' 
Hey tutti, taiti. 
How tutti, taiti— 
Wha's fou now ? 

Cog and ye were aye fou. 
Cog and ye were aye fou, 
I wad sit and sing to you 
If ye were aye fou. 

Weel may ye a' be ! 

Ill may we never see ! 

God bless the king, boy 
And the companie ! 
Hey tutti, taiti. 
How tutti, taiti— 
Wha's fou now ? 



TO DAUNTON ME. 

Tune—" To daunton me." 

The blude-red rose at Yule may blavr, 
The "simmer lilies bloom in snaw. 
The frost may freeze the deepest sea; 
But an auld man shall never daunton* 



To daunton me, and me so young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring 

tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see; 
For an auld man shall never daunton 

me. 

For a' his meal and a' his maut, 
For a' his fresh beef and his saut. 
For a' his gold and white monie. 
An auld man shall never daunton me. 

His gear^ may buy him kye and yowes. 
His gear may buy him glens and 

knowes; 
But me he shall not buy nor fee, [me. 
For an auld man shall never daunton 

He hirples^ twa-fauld as he dow,"* 
Wi' his teethless gab' and his auld held 
pow,^ [bleer'd ee. 

And the rain dreeps down f rae his red 
That auld man shall never daunton me. 



2 Full. 

• Rule— intimidate. ^ Wealth. 
♦Can. » Mouth. •Head, 



Limpid 



SONGS. 



217 



COME BOAT ME O'ER TO 
CHARLIE 

Tune—" O'er the Water to Charlie." 

CJOME boat me o' er, come row me o'er. 

Come boat me o'er to Charlie; 
I'll gie John Ross another bawbee. 

To boat me o'er to Charlie. 

We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, 
We'll o'er the water to Charlie; 

Come weel, come woe, we'll gath 
er and go, 
And live or die wi' Charlie, 

I lo'e weel my Charlie's name. 
Though some there be abhor him; 

But oh, to see auld Nick gaun hame. 
And Charlie's faes before him ! 

I swear and vow by moon and stars, 
And sun that shines so early, 

If I had twenty thousand lives, 
I'd die as aft for Charlie. 



RATTLIN', ROARIN' WILLIE. 

Tune—" Ratthn', roarin' Willie." 

** The hero of this chant," says Burns, " was 
one of the worthiest fellows in the world — 
William Dunbar, Esq., writer to the Si^iet^ 
Edinburgh, and colonel of the Crochallan 
corps— a club of wits, who took that title at 
the time of raising the fencible regiments." 
The last stanza only was the work of the 
poet. 

O RATTLIN', roarin' Willie, 

Oh, he held to the fair. 
And for to sell his fiddle. 

And buy some other ware; 
. But parting wi' his fiddle. 

The saut tear blin't his ee; 
■And rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 

^ O Willie, come sell your fiddle. 

Oh, sell your fiddle so fine, 
O Willie come sell your fiddle, 

And buy a pint o' wine ! 
If I should sell my fiddle, 

The warl' would think I was mad ; 
For mony a rantin' day 

My fiddle and I hae had. 

As I cam by Crochallan, 
J gaouily J^eeJUt ben— 



Rattlin', roarin' Willie 

Was sitting at yon board en'; 
Sitting at yon board en'. 

And amang guidcompanie; 
Rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to mel 



MY HOGGIE.* 
Tune—" What will I do gin my hoggie die ?* I 

What will I do gin my hoggie die ? 

My joy, my pride, my hoggie! 
My only beast, I had nae mae. 

And vow but I was vogie!' 

The lee lang night we watch'd the 
fauld. 

Me and my faithfu' doggie; 
We heard nought but the roaring linn^ 

Amang the braes sae scroggie;^ 

But the houlet cried f rae the castle vra'. 
The blutter* frae the boggie, 

The tod'* replied upon the Mil, 
I trembled for my hoggie. 

When day did daw, and cocks did cravr. 
The morning it was foggie; 

An unco tyke^ lap o'er the dike. 
And maist has kill'd my hoggie. 



UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 

The chorus of this song is old ; but the tvr« 
stanzas are Burns'. 

CHORUS. 

Up in the morning's no for me. 
Up in the morning early; 

When a' the hills are cover'd wi* 
snaw, 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to 
west, 

The drift is driving sairly; 
Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 



I Vain. * Full of stunted bushes. ' Mire^. 
snipe. * Fox. * A strange dog. 

* Hoggie— a. young sheep after it is snxe«r?d| 
and before \% is first 5bor»» 



ZVa 



BUkNS' wuKliS. 



The birds sit chittering' in the thorn, 
A' day they fare but sparely; 

And lang's the night f rae e'en to morn, 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 



I'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET. 
Tune—" I'm o'er young to marry yet." 

I AM my mammy's ae bairn, 
Wi' unco' folic 1 weary, sir; 

And lying in a man's bed, 
I'm fley'd'^ wad mak me eerie,^ sir. 

I'm o'er young to marry yet, 

I'm o'er young to marry yet, 
I'm o'er young — 'twad be a sin 
To tak me f rae my mammy yet. 

My mammy coft* me a new gown. 
The kirk maun hae the gracing o't ; 

Were I to lie wi' you, kind sir, 
I'm fear'd ye'd spoil the lacing o't. 

Hallowmas is come and gane. 

The nights are lang in winter, sir , 

And you and I in ae bed, 
In trouth I dare nae venture, sir. 

Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind 
Blaws through the leafless timmer,* 
sir ; 

But if ye come this gate^ again, 
I'll aulder be gin simmer, sir. 



THE WINTER IS PAST. 

The winter it is past, and the sum^ 

mer's come at last, 

And the little birds sing on every tree; 

Now everything is glad, while I am 

very sad. 

Since my true love is parted from me. 

The rose upon the brier, by the waters 

running clear, [the bee. 

May have charms for the linnet or 

Their little loves are blest, and their 

little hearts at rest, 

But my true love is parted from me 



• Shivering. 

« Sttangre. * Afraid. » Timorous, ♦ Bought. 
Treee. ^ Way, 



My love is like the sun, in the firma. 
ment does run, 
For ever is constant and true; 
But his is like the moon, that wanders 
up and down. 
And is every month changing anew. 

All you that are in love, and cannot it 
remove, 
I pity the pains you endure ; 
For experience makes me know that 
you hearts are full o' woe, 
A woe that no mortal can cure. 



OH, WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' 
MAUT. 

Tune — " Willie brew'd a peck o' maut. 

The poet's account of the origin of this song 
is as follows .— " The air is Allan Master- 
ton's, the song mine. The occasion of Jt 
was this— Mr. William Nicol of the High 
School, Edinburgh, being at Moffat during 
the autumn vacation, honest Allan— who 
was at that time on a visit to Dalswmton— 
and I went to pay Nicol a visit. We had 
such a joyous meeting that Masterton and I 
agreed, each in our own way, that we should 
celebrate the business.'' 

Oh, Willie brew'd a peck of maut, 
And Rob and Allan came to pree;* 

Three blither hearts, that lee-lang 
night. 
Ye wadna find in Christendie. 

We are na fou, we're na that fou. 
But just a drappie in our ee; 

The cock may craw, the day may daw, 
And aye we'll taste the barley bree. 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys, I trow, are we; i 

And mony a night we've merry been, f 
And mony mae we hope to be ! 

It is the moon — I ken her horn. 
That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie; 

She shines sae bright to wile us hame. 
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee' 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa', 
A cuckold, coward loon is he 1 

Wha last beside his chair shall ta,\ 
He is the king amang us three ! 



> Taste. 



SONGS. 



m 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

Tune—" Death of Captain Cook." 

The story of Mary Campbell has been briefly 
alluded to m the memoir of the poet, and in 
the notes to the Correspondence. She be- 
longed to the neighbourhood of Dunoon, a 
beautiful watering-place on the Clyde, and 
was in the service of Colonel Montgomery 
I of Coilstield when the poet made her ac- 
' quaintance,and afterwards in that of Gavin 
Hamilton. They would appear to have been 
seriously attached to each other. When 
Jean Armour's father had ordered her to 
relinquish all claims on the poet, his 
thoughts naturally turned to Mary Camp- 
bell. It was arranged that Mary should 
give up her place with the view of making 
preparations for their union ; but before 
she went home they met in a sequestered 
spot on the banks of the Ayr. Standing on 
either side of a purling brook, and holding 
aBible between them, they exchanged vows 
of eternal fidelity. Mary presented him with 
her Bible, the poet giving his own m ex- 
change. This Bible has been preserved, 
and on a blanL leaf, in the poet's hand- 
writing, is inscribed, "And ye shall not 
swear by my name falsely ; I am the Lord," 
(Lev. xix. TO.) On the second volume, 
"Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt 
perform unto the Lord thine oath." (Matt. 
V. 33.) And on another blank leaf his name 
and mark as a Royal Arch mason. The 
lovers never met again, Mary Campbell 
having died suddenly at Greenock. Over 
her grave a monument has been erected by 
the admirers of the poet. On the third an- 
niversary of her death, Jean Armour, then 
his wife, noticed that, towards the evening, 
"he grew sad about something, went into 
the barn-yard, where he strode restlessly up 
and down for some time, although repeat- 
edly asked to come in. Immediately on 
entering the house, he sat down and wrote 
'To Mary m Heaven,'" which Lockhart 
characterizes " as the noblest of all his bal- 
lads." 

Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, 

That lovest to greet the early morn, 
Again tliou usher 'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend 
his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget, 
Can 1 forget the hallow'd grove, 

Where by the winding Ayr we met, 
To live one day of parting love ! 

Eternity will not efface [past; 

Those records dear of transports 

Thy image at our last embrace, 

^Ah J Uttle thought we 'twas our last! 



Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O'erliung with wild woods, thick'n- 
ing green, 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twined amorous round the raptured 
scene ; 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray- 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim 'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory 
wakes. 
And fondly broods with miser care 1 
Time but the impression stronger 
makes. 
As streams their channels deeper 
wear, 
My Mary! dear departed shade! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest I 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
Hear'st thou the groans that rend 
his breast ? 



THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS 

O" NITH. 

Tune—" Up and waur them a'.'' 

The following ballad originated in a contest 
for the representation of the Dumfries 
burghs, which took place in September, 
1789, between the former member, Sir James 
Johnston of Westerhall, who was supported 
by the court and the Tories, and Captain 
Miller of Dalswinton, the eldest son of the 
poet_'s landlord, who had the interest of the 
Duke of Queensberry and the Whigs. As 
Burns had the warmest veneration for in- 
dividuals of both parties, he wished to 
avoid taking any active part on either side» 
and contented himself therefore with pen- 
ning this piece chiefly against the Duke of 
Queensberry, the largest landed proprietor 
in Nithsdale, and for whose character h« 
seeems to have entertained the utmost de-^ 
testation. The allusion in the first verse is 
to the vote his Grace gave on the regency 
question, when he deserted the king, his 
master, in whose household he held office, 
and supported the right of the Prince ci 
Wales to assume the government without 
the consent of Parliament. 

The laddies by the banks o' Nith 

■ Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie; 
But he'll sair' them as he sair'd the 
king, 
Turn tail and rin awa*, Jamie. 



iSenre, 



«20 



BTTIINS* WORKS. 



Up and waur^ them a' Jamie, 
Up and waur them a'; [o't, 

The Johnstons hae the guidin' 
Ye turncoat Whigs, awa'. 

The day he stood his country's friend, 
Or gaed her faes a claw, Jamie, 

Or frae puir man a blessin' wan, 
That day the duke ne'er saw, Jamie. 

But wha is he, the country's boast. 
Like him tliere is na twa, Jamie; 

There's no a callant^ tents'* the kye,^ 
But kens o' Westerha', Jamie. 

To end the wark here's Wliistlebirck,* 
Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie; 

And Maxwell true o' sterling h\\\e, 
And we'll be Johnstons a', Jamie, 

Up and waur them a', Jamie, 
Up and waur them a'; [o't. 

The Johnstons hae the guidin' 
Ye turncoat Whigs, awa'. 



THE FIVE CARLINES. 

Tune—" Chevy-chace." 

This is another ballad which the poet penned 
on the contested election mentioned above. 
It represents the five burghs in cleverly- 
drawn figurative characters — Dumfries, 
as Maggy on the banks of Nith : An- 
nan, as Blinking Bess of Annandale ; Kirk- 
cudbright, as Whisky Jean of Galloway ; 
Sanquhar, as Black Joan frae Crichton 
Peel; and Lochmaben, as Marjory of the 
Many Lochs— each of which is more or less 
locally appropriate. 

There were five carlines' in the south, 

They fell upon a scheme. 
To send a lad to Lon'on town. 

To bring them tidings hame. 

Not only bring them tidings hame, 
But do their errands there; 

And aiblins^ gowd and honour baith 
Might be that laddie's share. 

There was Maggy by the banks o' 
Nith, 
A dame wi' pride enough ; 



* Beat. ' Boy. * Tends. * Cows. 

» Old women. ^ Perhaps. 

♦ Alexander Birtwhistle, Esq., merchant in 
iCirkcudbright, and provost of the burgh. 



And Marjory o' the Mony Lochs, 
A carline auld and teugh, 

And Blinkin Bess of Annandale, 
That dwelt near Solway-side, 

And Whisky Jean, that took her gilj 
In Galloway sae wide. 

And Black Joan, frae Crichton Peel, 

O' gipsy kith and kin; — 
Five wighter^ carlines werena foun* 

The south countrie within. 

To send a lad to Lon'on town. 

They met upon a day; 
And mony a knight, and mony a laird, 

Their errand fain wad gae. 

Oh, mony a knight, and mony a laird, 

This errand fain wad gae; 
But nae ane could their fancy please^ 

Oh, ne'er ane but twae. 

The first he was a belted knight,* 

Bred o' a Border clan; 
And he wad gae to Lon'on town. 

Might nae man him withstan'; 

And he wad do their errands weel, 

And meikle he wad say; 
And ilka ane at Lon'on court 

Wad bid to him guid dayi 

Then neist cam in a sodger youth,f 
And spak wi' modest grace. 

And he wad gae to Lon'on town, 
If sae their pleasure was. 

He wadna liecht^ them courtly gifts. 
Nor meikle speech pretend; 

But he wad hecht an honest heart 
Wad ne'er desert his friend. 

Now, wham to choose, and wham r» 
fuse, 

At strife thir carlines fell ; 
For some had gentlefolks to please, 

And some wad please themsel. 

Then out spak mim-mou'd* Meg rf 
Nith, 

And she spak up wi' pride. 
And she wad send the sodger youth. 

Whatever might betide. 



3 More powerful 
mouthed. 

* Sir J. Johnston, 
t Captain Miller. 



* Promise. » Pria? 



SONGS. 



231 



For tlie auld guidman| o' Lon'on court 

She didna care a pin ; 
But she wad send a sodger youth 
*To greet his eldest son.§ 

Then up sprang Bess of Annandale, 

And swore a deadly aith, 
Says, • ' I will send the Border knight 

Spite o' you carlines baith. 

" For far-off fowls hae feathers fair, 
And fools o' change are fain; 

But 1 hae tried this Border knig' 
And I'll try him yet again." 

Then Whisky Jean spak owre her 
drink, 

'• Ye weel ken, kimmers a', 
The auld guidman o' Lon'on court, 

His back's been at the wa'. 

'* And mony a friend that kiss'd his 
cup 

Is now a fremiti wight, 
But it's ne'er be said o' Whisky Jean, 

I'll send the Border knight." 

Says Black Joan frae Crichton Peel, 
A carline stoor '' and grim, — 

*' The auld guidman, and the young 
guidman. 
For me may sink or swim ; 

*' For fools will prate o' right and 
wrang, 
Wliile knaves laugh in their sleeve ; 
But wha blows best the horn shall 
win, 
I'll spier nae courtier's leave." 

Then slow raise Marjory o' the Lochs, 
And wrinkled was her brow , 

Her ancient weed was russet gray, 
Her auld Scots bluid was true. 

< " The Lon'on court set light by me — 
I set as light by them ; 
And I will send the sodger lad 
To shaw that court the same." 

Sae how this weighty plea may end, 
Nae mortal wight can tell : 

God grant the king, and ilka man, 
May look weel to himsel ! 

• Estranged. "^ Austere. 

X George III. 
§ The Prince of Wales. 



THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. 

Air—" The Blue-eyed Lass." 

The " Blue-Eyed Lassie" was Miss Jean Jef- 
frey, daughter of the Rev. Mr. Jeffrey of 
Lochmaben, in Dumfriesshire, at whose 
house the poet was a frequent visitor. On 
the occasion of his first visit, the young 
lady, then a charming, blue-eyed creature 
of eighteen, did the honours of the table, 
and so pleased the poet, that next morning 
at breakfast he presented her with the fol- 
low^ing passport to fame, in the form of ona 
of his finest songs. Miss Jeffrey afterwards 
went out to New York, where she married 
an American gentleman of the name of 
Renwick, to whom she bore a numerous 
family. One of her daughters became the 
wife of Captain Wilks, of the United States 
Navy. 

I GAED-a waefu' gate ' yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll .dearly rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

Twa lovely een o' bonny blue. 
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 

Her lips like roses wat wi' dew ; 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white — 

It was her een sae bonny blue. 

She talk'd, she smiled, my heart she 
wiled ; [how ; 

She charm'd my soul — I wist na' 
And aye the stound,^ the deadly 
wound. 

Cam frae her een sae bonny blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed,* 

She'll aiblins ^ listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead * 

To her twa een sae bonny blue. 



WHEN FIRST I SAW FAIR 

JEANIE^S FACE. 

Air—" Maggie Lauder." 

This song first appeared in the New York 
Mirror \n 1846, with the following notice of 
the heroine, Mrs. Renwick (w^^' Miss Jean 
Jeffrey) mentioned above :— " The lady to 
whofn the following verses— never before 
published — were addressed, known to the 
readers of Burns as the ' Blue-eyed Lassie,' 
is one of a race whose beauties and virtues 
formed for several generations, the inspira- 



1 Road. 2 Pang. 3 Perhaps. ■* Death. 

* A proverbial expression— Give me the 
chance of speak'" ng and the opportunity of 
gaining her favour. 



9e2 



BURNS' WORKS. 



tion of the masters of Scottish song. Her 
mother was Agones Armstrong, in whose 
honour the touching words and beautiful 
air of ' Roslin Castle' were comf)osed. 

When first I saw fair Jeanie's face, 

I couldna tell what ail'd me. 
My heart went fluttering pit-a-pat. 

My een they almost faii'd me. 
She's aye sae neat, sae trim, sae tight, 

All grace does round lier hover, 
Ae look deprived me o' my heart. 
And I became a lover. 

She's aye, aye sae blithe, sae gay, 
She's aye so blithe and cheerie ; 
She's aye sae bonny, blithe,and gay. 
Oh, gin I were her dearie ! 

Had I Dundas' whole estate. 

Or Hopetoun's wealth to shine in ; 
Did warlike laurels crown my brow. 

Or humbler bays entwining — 
I'd laid them a' at Jeanie's feet. 

Could I but hope to move her, 
And prouder than a belted knight, 

I'd be my Jeanie's lover. 

She's aye, aye sae blithe, &c. 

But sair I fear some happier swain 

Has gained sweet Jeanie's favour : 
If so, may every bliss be hers. 

Though I maun never have her ; 
But gang she east, or gang she west, 

'Twixt Forth and Tweed all over, 
While men have eyes, or ears or taste. 

She'll always find a lover. 

She's aye, aye sae blithe, &c. 



MT LOVELY NANCY. 

Tune—" The Quaker's Wife." 

rhe following song," says the poet, in a 
letter to Clarinda, to whose charms, prob- 
ably, we owe the lines, " is one of my latest 
productions ; and I send it to you as I 
would do anything else, because it pleases 
myself :" — 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

Every pulse along my veins. 
Every roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart. 
There to throb and languish ; 

Though despair had wrung its core. 
That would heal its anguish. 



Take away these rosy lips. 
Rich with balmy treasure ; 

Turn away thine eyes of love. 
Lest I die with pleasure. 

What is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning: 
Love's the cloudless summer sun. 

Nature gay adorning. 



TIBBIE DUNBAR. 

Tune—" Johnny M'Gill." 
Oh, wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie 

Dunbar ? [Dunbar ? 

Oh, wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie 
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn 

in a car, [Dunbar ? 

Or walk by my side, oh, sweet Tibbie 

I care na thy daddie, his lands and his 
money, [lordly: 

I care na thy kin, sae high and sae 

But say thou wilt hae me for better foi 
waur — [Dunbar | 

And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie 



WHEN ROSY MAY COMES IN 

Wr FLOWERS. 

Tune—" The gardener wi' his paidle." 

The poet afterwards produced a new versioi? 
of this song, with a change in the burden at 
the end of the stanzas. 

When rosy May comes in wi' flowers» 
To deck her gay green-spreading bow- 
ers, 
Then busy, busy, are his hours — 

The gardener wi'his paidle.' 
The crystal waters gently fa' 
The merry birds are lovers a'; 
The scented breezes round him blaw--a 

The gardener wi' his paidle. 

When purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare, [pair- 
Then through the dews he maun r«o 

The gardener wi' his paidle. 
Wlien day, expiring in the west. 
The curtain draws of nature's rest. 
He flies to her arms he lo'es the bei»t-« 

The gardener wi' his paidle. 
. _ — ■ — .H 

»Hoe, 



SONGS. 



22a 



1; 



I 



MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT 
GAY. 

Tune—" Highlander's Lament." 

The chorus of this song, the poet tells us, he 
picked up from an old woman in Dunblane, 
the rest being his own. The old song was 
composed on a Highland love affair: but 
this version was evidently intended for a 
Jacobite melody. 

Y Harry was a gallant gay, 
Fu' stately strode he on the plain; 
ut now he's banish'd far away, 
I'll never see him back again. 

Oh, for him back again ! 
Oh, for him back again ! 
I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land 
For Highland Harry back again. 

When a' the lave^ gae to their bed, 
I wander dowie"^ up the glen ; 

I set me down and greet^ my fill, 
And aye I wish him back again. 

Oh, were some villains hangit high. 
And ilka body had their ain ! 

Then I might see the joyfu' sight, 
My Highland Harry back again. 



BEWARE 0' BONNY ANN. 

Tune — " Ye gallants bright." 

'"I composed this song," says the poet, "out 
of compliment to Miss Ann Masterton, the 
daughter of my friend, Mr. Allan Master- 
ton, composer of the air, ' Strathallan's La- 
ment.' " 

Ye gallants bright, I rede^ ye right, 

' Beware o' bonny Ann; 

Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, 

Your heart she will trepan,^ 
Her een sae bright, like stars by night. 

Her skin is like the swan; 
Sae jimply^ laced her genty waist, 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, Grace, and Love, attendant 
move, 

And Pleasure leads the van : [arms, 
In a' their charms, and conquering 

They wait on bonny Ann. 



1 Rest, a Sad. a Cry. 
»W»ra, 2 Ensnare, 'Ti^hi:y. 



The captive bauds may chain the hands 
But love enslaves the man; 

Ye gallants braw, I rede you a*, 
Beware o' bonny Ann ! 



JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 

Tune— "John Anderson, my Jo." 

John Anderson, my jo'* John, 

When we were first acquent; 
Your locks were like the raven. 

Your bonny brow was brent. ^ 
But now your brow is beld, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw; 
But blessings on your frosty pow,* 

John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither; 
And mony a canty^ day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither; 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go; 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo. 



THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR 

Tune — " Cameronian Rant." 

" Oh cam ye here the fight to shun, 

Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, 

And did the battle see man ?" 
"I saw the battle sair and tough. 
And reekin' red ran mony a sheugli;' 
My heart, for fear, gaed sough'^ for 

sough, 
To hear the thuds, ^ and see thecluds, 
0' clans frae woods, in tartan duds,* 

Wha glaum'd^ at kingdoms three, 
man. 

" The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades. 
To meet them werna slaw, man; 

They rush'd and push'd, and bluid out- 
gush'd, 
And mony a bouk^did fa', man: 

The great Aigyle led on his files, 

I wat they glanced for twenty miks, 



1 Love— dear. ^ Smooth. ^ Head. * Happy. 
1 Ditch. 2 Sigh. 3 Knocks. * Cloth** 
• Qrasped. ^ Trunk, body. 



224 



BURNS' WORKS. 



They hack'd and hasli'd while broad- 
swords clash'd, [and smash'd 
And through they dash'd, and hew'd 
'Till fey' men died awa', man. 

" But had ye seen the pliilabegs. 
And skyrin^ tartan trews, man; 
When in the teeth they dared our 
Whigs 
And covenant true-blues, man; 
In lines extended lang and large, 
When bayonets o'erpower'd the targe. 
And thousands hasten'd to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the 

sheath 
Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath, 
They fled like frightened doos,^ 
man." 

*' Oh, how deil, Tam, can that be true? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man; 
I saw mysel they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man: 
And at Dunblane, in my ain sight. 
They took the brig wi' a' their might, 
And straught to Stirling wing'd their 

flight; 
But, cursed lot! the gates were shut; 
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat. 

For fearamaist did swarf, ^'^ man! 

** My sister Kate cam up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man; 
She swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man: 
Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day their neibors' bluid to spill; 
For fear by foes that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose, they scared at 
blows, 
And hameward fast did flee, man. 

*' They've lost some gallant gentlemen 

Amangthe Highland clans, man; 
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain, 

Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man: 
Now wad ye sing this double fight. 
Some fell for wrang, and some for 

right; 
And mony bade the world guid-night; 
Then ye may tell how pell and mell. 
By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 
Wi' dying yell, the Tories fell. 
And Whigs to hell did flee, man. 

' Predestined. • ghining. '» Pigeons. " 



BLOOMING NELLY. 
Tune—" On a Bank of Flowers.'* 

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day. 

For summer lightly drest. 
The youthful blooming Nelly lay. 

With love and sleep opprest; 
When Willie, wandering through the 
wood, 

Who for her favour oft had sued. 
He gazed, he wish'd, he fear'd, he 
blush'd, 

And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath, 
ed. 

Were seal'd in soft repose; 
Her lips, still as she fragrant breathed. 

It richer dyed the rose. 
The springing lilies sweetly prest, 

Wild- wanton, kiss'dher rival breast; 
He gazed, he wish'd, he fear'd, he 
blush'd — 

His bosom ill at rest. 

Her robes, light waving in the breeze. 

Her tender limbs embrace! 
Her lovely forrii, her native ease, 

All harmony and grace! 
Tumultuous "tides his pulses roll. 

A faltering, ardent kiss he stole; 
He gazed, he wish'd, he fear'd, he 
blush'd, 

And sigh'd his very soul. 

As flies the partridge from the brake. 

On fear-inspired wings. 
So Nelly, starting, half -awake. 

Away affrighted springs: 
But Willie follow'd — as he should; 

He overtook her in the wood; 
He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the 
maid 

Forgiving all and good. 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGH 
LANDS. 

Tune—" Faille na Miosg." 

"The first half stanza of this song," saya 
Burns, " is old ; the rest is mine." 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart 

is not here; [the deer; 

Mj heart's in tlie Highlands, a-ch;\siny 



SONGS. 



299 



•k-cliasing the wild deer, and following 

the roe— [1 go. 

My heart's in the Highlands wherever 

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to 
the North, [of worth: 

The birthplace of valour, the country 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands forever I 
love. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd 
with snow; [leys below; 

Farewell to the straths and green val- 

Farewell to the forests and wild-hang- 
ing woods; [ing floods. 

Farewell to the torrents and loud-pour- 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart 
is not here; [the deer; 

My heart's in the Highlands a- chasing 

A-chasing the wild deer, and following 
the roe — [I go. 

My heart's in the Highlands wherever 



THE BANKS OF NITH. 

Tune—" Robie donna Gorach." 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

Where royal cities stately stand; 
But sweeter flows the Nith, to me, 

Where Cummins* ance had high 
command: 
When shall I see that honour'd land. 

That winding stream 1 love so dear ! 
Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand 

Forever, ever keep me here ? 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gayly 
bloom ! 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, 

Where lambkins wanton through 

the broom ! [doom. 

Though wandering, now, must be my 

Far from thy bonny banks and braes, 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days I 



TAM GLEN. 

Tune—" Tam Glen." 
My heart is breaking, dear tittie !^ 
Some counsel unto me come len' : 



* Sister. 



tocy 



The well-kflowa Comyns of Scottish his- 



To anger them a' is a pity. 

But what will I do wi' Tam Glen I 

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fallow. 
In poortith I might mak a fen;* 

What care I in riches to wallow. 
If I mauna marry Tam Glen ? 

There's Lowrie the Laird o' Drumeller. 
' ' Guid day to you brute I" he comet 
ben. 
He brags and blaws o' his siller. 
But when will he dance Uke Tam 
Glen? 

My minnie^ does constantly deave me. 
And bids me beware o' young men; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me. 
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glenl 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten; 

But if it's ordain'd I maun take him. 
Oh, wha will I get but Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the valentines' dealing. 
My heart to my mou' gied a sten;* 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written — Tam 
Glen! 

The last Halloween I lay waukin'^ 
My droukit^ sark-sleeve, as ye ken;* 

His likeness came up the house staukin'. 
And the very gray breoks o' Tam 
Glen ! 

Come counsel, dear tittie ! dont tarry— 
I'll gie ye my bonny black hen, 

Gif ye will advise me to marry 
The lad I lo'e dearly — Tam Glen. 



THE TAILOR. 

Tune—" The tailor fell through the bed, 
thimbles and a'." 

The tailor fell through the bed, thim- 
bles and a' ; [bles and a'; 

The tailor fell through the bed, thim- 

The blankets were thin, and the sheets 
they were sma', [bles and a*. 

The tailor fell through the bed, thim- 



2 Shift. 8 Mother. * Bound 

* Watching. ^ Wet. 

* For an explanation of this old usage, se^ 
under the head " Poeaxs," Note t, page 



136 



BURNS' WORKS. 



The sleepy bit lassie, slie dreaded nae 
iU; [ill; 

The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae 

The weather was cauld, and the lassie 
lay still, [nae ill. 

She thought that a tailor could do her 

Gie me the groat again, canny young 
man; [man; 

Gie me the groat again, canny young 

The day it is short, and the night it is 
lang, 

The dearest siller that ever I wan ! 

There's somebody weary wi' lying her 
lane: [lane; 

There's somebody weary wi' lying her 

There's some that are dowie,^ 1 trow 
wad be fain"^ [again. 

To see the bit tailor come skippin' 



IE HAE LIEN WRANG LASSIE. 

CHORUS. 

Ye hae lien a' wrang, lassie, 

Ye've lien a' wrang; 
Ye've lien in an unco' bed. 
And wi' a fremit'^ man. 
Your rosy cheeks are turn'd sae wan. 
Ye're greener than the grass, lassie; 
Your coatie's shorter by a span. 
Yet ne'er an inch the less, lassie. 

O lassie, ye hae play'd the fool. 
And we will feel the scorn, lassie ; 

For aye the brose ye sup at e'en, 
Ye bock^ them ere the morn, lassie. 

Oh, ance ye danced upon the knowes,* 
And through the wood ye sang, 
lassie; 

But in the berrying o' a bee byke, 
I fear ye've got a stang, lassie. 



THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 

Tune—" Neil Gow's Lament." 

The first half stanza of this song is old : the 
rest by Burns. 

There's a youth in this city. 
It were a great pity [awa'; 

That he frae our lasses should wander 

» Melancholy, a Glad. 
• Strange. * Stranif er. > Vomit. * Hills, 



For he's bonny an* braw, 

Weel favour'd witha'. [a*. 

And his hair lias a natural buckle and 

His coat is the hue 

Of his bonnet sae blue; [snaw. 
His fecket* is white as the new-driven 

His hose they are blae, 

And his slioon like the slae, [us 'a. 
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle 

For beauty and fortune 
The laddie's been courtin'; 

Weel-featured, weel-tocher'd, weel- 
mounted, and braw; 
But chiefly the siller, 
That gars him gang till her. 

The penny's the jewel that beautifies 'a. 
There's Meg wi' the mailen,f 
That fain wad a haen him; 

And Susie, whose daddy was laird o 
the ha'; 
There's lang-tocher'd Nancy 
Maist fetters his fancy — 

But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dear* 
est of a'. 



OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED 
FRESH AND FAIR. 

Tune — " Awa', Whigs, awa'." 

The second and fourth stanzas only of this 
song are from the pen of the poet : the 
others belong to an old Jacobite ditty. 

Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair. 
And bonny bloom'd our roses; 

But Whigs cam like a frost in June, 
And wither'd a' our posies. 

Awa', Wliigs, awa'! 

Awa', Wliigs, awa'! t 

Ye're but a pack o* traitor louns^ 

Yell do nae guid at a*. 

Our ancient crown's ta'n in the dust— 
Deil blin' them wi' the-stoure o't; 

And write their names in his black 
beuk 
Wlia gie the Whigs the power o't; 

Our sad decay in Church and State 

Surpasses my descriving; 
The Whigs cam o'er us for a curse. 

And we liae done wi' thriving. 

* An under waistcoat with sleeves* 
t A well-Stocked farm, 



BONTJB. 



3SV 



Grim Vengeance lang lias ta'en a nap, 
But we may see him wauken ; 

©ude help the day when royal heads 
Are hunted like a maukin !^ 



k 



COME REDE ME, DAME. 
Come rede' me, dame, come tell me, 
dame, 
And nane can tell mair truly. 
What colour maun the man be of 
To love a woman duly. 

The carline^ flew baith up and down, 
And leugh and answer'd ready, 

I learn'd a sang in Annandale, 
A dark man for my lady. 

But for a country quean like thee, 
Young lass, I tell thee fairly, 

That wi' the white I've made a shift. 
And brown will do fu' rarely. 

There's mickle love in raven locks. 
The flaxen ne'er grows youden,^ 

There's kiss and hause** me in the 
brown. 
And glory in the gowden. 

THE CAPTAIN'S LADY. 

Tune—" Oh, mount and go." 
CHORUS. 

Oh, mount and go, 

Mount and make you ready; 
Oh, mount and go. 

And be the captain's lady. 

When the drums do beat. 
And the cannons rattle, 
Thou shalt sit in state. 
And see thy love in battle. 

When the vanquish'd foe 
Sues for peace and quiet 

^o the shades we'll go. 
And in love enjoy it. 



OH ^^RRY HAE I BEEN TEETH- 
IN' A HECKLE. 

t /NE — " Lord Breadalbane's March." 
Oh merry hae I been teethin' a heckle, 
d ad merry hae I been shapin' a 
spoon; 



And merry hae I been cloutin'^ a ket- 
tle, 
And kissin' my Katie when a* waa 
done. [mer. 

Oh, a' the lang day I ca' at my ham-. 
And a'tlie lang day I whistle and sing, 
A' the lang night I cuddle'^ my kirn- 
mer,^ [a king. 

And a' the lang night am as liappy'g 

Bitter in dool I lickit my winnin's, 

O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave: 

Blest be the hour she cool'd in her 

linens, [her grave! 

And blithe be the bird that sings on 
Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, 

And come to my arms and kiss me 
again ! 
Drunken or sober, here's to thee, Katie! 

And blest be the day I did it again. 



' Counsel. 
M i&brace* 



» Hare. 
2 Old woman. 



Gray. * Hug 



EPPIE ADAIR. 

TuKE— " My Eppie." 

And oh! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie I 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair ? 
By love, and by beauty. 
By law, and by duty, 
I swear to be true to 

My Eppie Adair 1 

And oh ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie! 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair? 
A' pleasure exile me. 
Dishonour defile me. 
If e'er I beguile thee. 

My Eppie Adair! 



YOUNG JOCKEY. 

Tune—" Young Jockey.* 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad 
In a' our town or here awa', 

Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud,* 
Fu' lightly danced he in the ha'. 

He roosed'^ my een, sae bonny blue, 
He roosed my waist sae genty sma* 



1 Patching up. 2 Fondle. » Dearie, 
i Plough. 2 Praisea. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And aye my heart came to my mou' 
When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain, 

Through wind and weet, through 
frost and snaw; 
And o'er the lea I leuk fu' fain 

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca'. 
And aye the night comes round again, 

When in his arms he takes me a'; 
And aye he vows he'll be my ain, 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 



WEE WILLIE GRAY. 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather 

wallet; [and jacket: 

Peel a willow-wand to be him boots 
The rose upon the brier will be him 

trouse and doublet, 
The rose upon the brier will be him 

trouse and doublet. [wallet, 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather 
Twice a lily flower will be him sark 

and cravat, [bonnet, 

Feathers of a flee wad feather up his 
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his 

bonnet. 



JAMIE, COME TRY ME. 

Tune— "Jamie, come try me." 
CHORUS. 

Jamie, come try me, 

Jamie, come try me. 

If thou wad win my love, 

Jamie, come try me. 

if thou should ask my love. 

Could I deny thee ? 
La thou would win my love, 

Jamie, come try me. 

If thou should kiss me, love, 
Wha could espy theeV 

If thou wad be my love, 
Jamie, come try me. 



THE BATTLE OF KILLIE- 
CRANKIE. 

Tune—" Killiecrankie." 

the chorus of this song, which celebrates the 
battle where Viscount Dundee fell in the 
moment of victory, is old ; the rest is from 
tbe pen of Burns. 



VVhake hae ye been sfie braw, lad? 

Wl'.are hae vf been sae brankie,' O! 
Oh, wliare hae ye been sae braw, lad' 

Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O ? 
An' ye hae been whare I hae been. 

Ye wadna been sae cantie,* O; 
An' ye ha' seen what I hae seen, 

On the braes of Killiecrankie, O. 

I fought at land, I fought at sea; 

At hame I fought my auntie, O; 
But I met the devil and Dundee, 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie^ O. 
The bauld Pitcur fell in a fur,^ 

And Clavers got a clankie, O; 
Or I had fed on Athole gled,* 

On the braes o' Killiecranlde, O. 



GUIDWIFE, COUNT THE LAWIN. 

Tune — " Guidwife, count the lawin." 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, 
But we'll ne'er stray for fau't* o' light* 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon. 
And blude-red wine's the rising sun. 

Then, guidwife, count the lawin. 

The lawin, the lawin; 
Then, guidwife, count the lawin. 

And bring a coggie'^ mair. 

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, 
And simple folk maun fecht and fen*; 
But here we're a' in ae accord. 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 

My coggie is a haly pool, 

That heals the wounds o' care and dool;* 

And pleasure is a wanton trout, 

An' ye drink but deep ye'll find him out. 



WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T. 

Tune—" Whistle o'er the lave o't'' 

First when Maggy was my care, 
Heaven, I thought, was in her air; 
Now we're married — spier^ nae mair-« 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. — 
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild. 
Bonny Meg was nature's child; 
Wiser men than me's beguiled — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

. . — m 

1 Gaudy. ^ Merry. ^ Furrow. * Kite 
1 Want. 2 Bumper. a Q^i^ 



SONGS. 



S29 



How we live, my lileg and me. 
How we love, and how we 'gree, 
I care na by how few may see — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
Wha I wish were maggots' meat, 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
i could write — but Meg maun see' 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 



I 



OH, CAN YE LABOUR LEA. 

Oh, can ye labour lea, young man, 

And can ye labour lea; 
Gae back the gate ye cam again, 

Ye'se never scorn me. 

I fee'd a man at Martinmas, 

Wi' airl-pennies three; 
And a' the faut I fan' wi' him. 

He couldna labour lea. 

The stibble-rig is easy plough'd. 

The fallow land is free; 
But wha wad keep the handless coof , 

That couldna labour lea? 



WOMEN'S MINDS. 
Tune—" For a' that." 
Though women's minds, like winter 
winds, 
May shift and turn and a' that. 
The noblest breast adores them maist, 
A conseqaence I draw that. 

For a' that, and a' that. 

And twice as muckle's a' that. 

The bonny lass that I lo'e best 
She'll be my ain for a' that. 

Great love I bear to all the fair, 
Their humble slave, and a' that; 

But lordly will, I hold it still, 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

But there is ane aboon the lave,* 
Has wit, and sense, and a' that; 

A bonny lass, I like l;8r best. 
And wha a crime dare ca' that ? 



IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNY 
FACE. 

Tune—" The Maid's Complaint." 
fr is na, Jean, thy bonny face. 
Nor shape, that T admire, 

A Rest. 



Although thy beauty and thy grace 
Might weel awake desire. 

Something, in ilka part o' thee. 
To praise, to love, I find; 

But, dear as is thy form to me. 
Still dearer is thy mind. 

Nae mair ungenerous wish I has. 

No stronger in my breast. 
Than if I canna mak thee sae. 

At least to see thee blest. 
Content am I, if Heaven shall gire 

But happiness to thee: 
And, as wi' thee I'd wish to live. 

For thee I'd bear to d^e. 



MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE 
YET. 

TimE— *' Lady Badinscoth's Reel." 

My love she's but a lassie yet. 

My love she's but a lassie yet; 
We'll let her stand a year or twa, 

She'll no be half sae saucy yet. 
I rue the day I sought her, O, 

I rue the day I sought her. 0; 
Wha gets her needna say she's woo'd. 

But he may say he's bought her, 01 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet: 

Come draw a drap o' the best o't yet; 
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will. 

But here I never miss'd it yet. 
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't; 

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't; 
The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, 

And couldna preach for thinkin' o't. 



TUNE- 



CA' THE EWES. 
' Ca* the Ewes to the Knowes.** 



The fourth and fifth stanzas of this song, 
which was written for the Museum^ are old, 
with a few touches of improvement by 
Burns. He afterwards wrote a much better 
version for Thomson's collection, which wilj 
be found at p. 263. 

As I gaed down the water-side, 
Tliere I met my shepherd lad. 
He row'd' me sweetly in his plaid. 
And ca'd me his dearie. 



Wrapt, 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Ca'tlie ewes to tlie knowes, 
Ca' them whare the heather grows, 
Ca' them whare the burnie rowes. 
My bonny dearie ! 

Will ye gang down the water-side, 
And see the waves sae sweetly glide ? 
Beneath the hazels spreading wide 
The moon it shines f u' clearly. 

I was bred up at nae sic school, 
My shepherd lad, to play the fool, 
And a' the day to sit in dool,'* 
And naebody to see me. 

Ye sail get gowns and ribbons meet, 
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, 
And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep, 
And ye sail be my dearie. 

If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, 
I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad. 
And ye may rowe me in your plaid. 
And I sail be your dearie. 

Wliile waters wimple^ to the sea: 
While day blinks in the lift^ sae hie; 
Til] clay-cauld death sail blin' my ee, 
Ye sail be my dearie. 



SIMMER'S A PLEASANT TIME. 

Tune—" Aye Waukin, O." 

This is an old song, on which the poet appears 
to have made only a few alterations. 

Simmer's a pleasant time. 

Flowers of every colour; 
The water rins o'er the heugh,^ 

And I long for my true lover. 

A waukin, O, 

Waukin still and wearie: 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 

When I sleep I dream, 

When I wauk I'm eerie;' 
Bleep I can get nane 

For tliinking on my dearie. 

Lanely night comes on, 

A' the lave^ are sleepin'; 
I think on my bonny lad. 

And I bleer my een with greetin'.* 

' Grief. ' Wander. * Heavens. 
» Steep. 2 Timorous. ' Rest. * Weeping. 



THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACH 
TILL JAMIE tJOMES HAME. 

TiTNE— " There are few guid fellows whea 
Willie's awa'." 

" When political combustion," says the poet, 
in a letter to Thomson, enclosing this song, 
which had evidently been composed while 
in a Jacobitical mood, "ceases to be the 
object of princes and patriots, it then, you 
know, becomes the lawful prey of historians 
and poets." 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the 

day, [was gray: 

I heard a man sing, though his head it 
And as he was singing, the tears fast 

down came, [comes hame. 

There'll never be peace till Jamie 
The Church is in ruins, the State is in 

jars; [ous wars; 

Delusions, oppressions, and murder- 
We darena weel say't, though we ken 

"wha's to blame — [hame ! 

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew 

sword, [beds in the yerd.* 

And now; I greet' round their green 
It brak the sweet heart of my faithf a' 

auld dame — [hame. 

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 
Now life is a burthen that bows me 

down, [crown; 

Since I tint' my bairns, and he tint his 
But .till my last moments my words are 

the same — [hame. 

There'll never be peace till Jamie ( 



LOVELY DAVIES. 

Tune—" Miss Muir." 

The heroine of this song was Miss Deborah 
Davies, a beautiful young Enghshwoman, 
connected by ties of blood with the family 
of Captain Riddel of Glenriddel, at whose 
house the poet probably first met her. Her 
beauty and accomplishments appear to have 
made a deep impression upon the poet, for 
he has celebrated them in a number of effu- 
sions in both prose and verse. In a letter to 
her enclosing this song, he says, in a strain 
of enthusiastic gallantry : — " When my 
theme is youth and beauty — a young lady 
whose personal charms, wit, and sentiment, 
are equally striking and unaffected — by 
Heavens ! though I had lived threescore 
years a married man, and threescora 
years before I was a married man, taf 



»Weep. « Churchyard. » LotU 



Ml 

1 



SONGS. 



231 



imagination would hallow the very idea; 
and I am truly sorry that the enclosed 
stanzas have done such poor justice to such 
a subject." 

Oh, how shall I unskilfu' try 

The poet's occupation, 
The tunefu' powers, in happy hours, 

That whisper inspiration ? 
Even they maun dare an effort mair 

Than aught they ever gave us, 
Or they rehearse, in equal verse, 

The charms o' lovely Davies. 

Each eye it cheers, when she appears, 

Like Phoebus in the morning, [er 
When past the shower and every flow- 

The garden is adorning. [shore, 

As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's 

When winter- bound the wave is; 
Sae droops our heart when we maun 
part 

Frae charming, lovely Davies. 

Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift, 

That maks us mair than princes; 
A sceptred hand, a king's command, 

Is in her darting glances: [charms, 
The man in arms, 'gainst female 

Even he her willing slave is; 
He hugs his chain, and owns the reign 

Of conquering, lovely Davies. 

My Muse, to dream of such a theme, 

Her feeble powers surrender; 
The eagle's gaze alone surveys 

The sun's meridian splendour; 
I wad in vain essay the strain, 

The deed too daring brave is; 
I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire 

The charms o' lovely Davies. 



THE BONNY WEE THING. 

Tune—" Bonny wee Thing." 

This is another, though briefer and more sen- 
timental, song in celebration of the lady 
mentioned above—" The charming, lovelv 
Davies." ' 

Bonny wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine.^ 



Wishfully I look and languish 
In that bonny face o' thine; 

And my heart it stounds'^ wi' anguish| 
Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauly, 

In ae constellation shine; 
To adore thee is my duty. 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonny wee thing, cannie wee thing. 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom , 

Lest my jewel I should tine I 



WAR SONG. 

Air—" Oran an Doig ;" or, " The Song of 
Death." 

"I have just finished," says the poet, in n 
letter to Mrs. Dunlop. enclosing this noble 
lyric, " the following song, which, to d lady, 
the descendant of Wallace, and herself the 
mother of several soldiers, needs .neither 
preface nor apology." The subject, the 
poet tells us, was suggested to him by an 
Isle-of-Skye tune entitled, "Oran an 
Doig ;" or, " The Song of Death," which he 
found in a collection of Highland airs, and 
to the measure of which he adapted his 
stanzas. 

Scene— A field of battle— Time of the day, 
Evening— The wounded and dying of the 
victorious army are supposed to join in the 
following song : — 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green 
earth, and ye skies. 
Now gay with the broad setting sun ! 
Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear 
tender ties ! 
Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life*j 

gloomy foe ! 

Go, frighten the coward and slave I 

Go teach them to tremble, fell tyrant 1 

but know. 

No terrors hast thou to the brave I 

Thou strik'sfc the dull peasant,— he 

sinks in the dark, [name;— 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a 

Thou strik'st the young hero — a gloii. 

ous mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame I 



Acjlief. 



233 



BURNS' WORKS. 



In tlie fields of proud lionour — our 
swords in our hands 
Our king and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebb- 
ing sands — [brave ! 
Ohl who would not die with the 



AE FOND KISS. 

Tune—" Rory Dall's Port." 

This exquisitely beautiful song sprang from 
the depth of the poet's passion for Clarinda ; 
and is one of the most vehement and im- 
pressive outbursts of intense feeling ever 
written. 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ae fareweel, and then, forever! 
Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge 
thee, [thee. 

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage 

Who shall say that Fortune grieves 

him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy; 
But to see her was to love her; 
Love but her, and love forever. 

Mad we never loved sae kindly. 
Had we never loved sae blindly. 
Never met — or never parted. 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! 
Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure. 
Peace, Enjoyment, Love, and Pleasure! 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ae fareweel, alas! forever! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge 
thee, [thee ! 

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

Tune — " Wandering Willie." 

The last interview of the poet with Clarinda 
took place in Edinburgh on the 6th of De- 
cember, 1791, and appears to have beea 



deeply affecting on both sides. In remem 
brance of this meeting, and while still undet 
the influence of the feelings evoked by it, 
the poet composed these beautiful lines : — 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy 
December! [care; 

Ance mair I hail the, wi' sorrow and 
Sad was the parting thou makes me re- 
member, [mair. 
Parting wi' Nancy, oh! ne'er to meet 

Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful 
pleasure, [ing hour; 

Hope beaming mild on the soft part- 
But the dire feeling, oh, farewell for- 
ever! [pure. 
Is anguish unmingled, and agony 

Wild as the winter now tearing the 

forest, [flown; 

Till the last leaf o' the summer is 

Such is the tempest has shaken my 

bosom, [is gone! 

Since my last hope and last comfort 

Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy Decem- 
ber, [care; 
Still shall I hail thee wi* sorrow and 
For sad was the parting thou makes me 
remember, [mair. 
Parting wi' Nancy, oh! ne'er to meet 



BEHOLD THE HOUR. 
Tune — " Oran Gaoil." 

A month after the interview mentioned in the 
introduction to the preceding song — on the 
25th of January, 1792— Clarinda, in antici- 
pation of her immediate departure for Ja- 
maica to join her husband, wrote to the poet 
bidding him farewell. *' Seek God's favour," 
she says ; " keep His commandments — be 
solicitous to prepare for a happy eternity. 
There, I trust, we will meet in never-ending 
bliss !" She sailed a month afterwards ; and 
the poet poured his feelings on the occasion 
into the following fine song : — 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive, 

Thou goest, thou darling of my? 

heart ! 

Sever'd from thee can I survive ? 

But Fate has will'd, and we must 

part. 

I'll often greet this surging swell. 
Yon distant isle will ofteu hail; 



SONGfS. 



** E'en here I took the last farewell; 
There latest mark'd her vanisli'd 
sail I"* 

Along the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea- fowl round me cry, 
Across the rolling dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn iny wistful eye, 

Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 
Where now my Nancy's path may be ! 

While through thy sweets she loves to 
stray, 
Oh, tell me, djes she muse on me ? 



THE MIRK NIGHT O' DECEMBER. 

Tune—" O May, thy morn." 

The following song, the production of a 
lighter mood, is also said to have been writ- 
ten in commemoration of the final meeting 
with Clarinda :— 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet. 

As the mirk night o' December; 
For sparkling was the rosy wine. 

And private was the chamber: 
And dear was she I darena name. 

But I will aye remember. 
And dear was she I darena name. 

But I will aye remember. 

And here's to them that, like oursel. 

Can push about the jorum; 
And here's to them that wish us weel, 

May a' that's guid watch o'er them ! 
And here's to them we darena tell. 

The dearest o' the quorum. 
And here's to them we darena tell. 

The dearest o' the quorum! 



I MY NANNIE'S AWA'. 

Tune — "There'll never be peace." 

Some months after the departure of Clarinda, 
when time had mellowed the poet's passion, 

* The above two stanzas of this song are 
given by Chambers as follows : — 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive ! 

My dearest Nancy, oh, fareweel ! 
Sever'd frae thee, can I survive, 

Frae thee whom I hae loved sae weel ? 

Endless and deep shall be my grief ; 

Nae ray o' comfort shall I see : 
i5ut this most precious, dear belief ! 

That thou wilt >«tili remember me. 



and absence calmed the tumult of his feel* 
ings, he wrote the following touching pas. 
toral :— 

Now in her green mantle blithe nature 
arrays, [o'er the braes. 

And listens the lambkins that bleat 

AVliile birds warble welcome in ilka 
green shaw;' [Nannie's awa' I 

But to me it's delightless — my 

The snaw-drap and primrose our wood- 
lands adorn, [morn; 

And violets bathe in the weet^ o' the 

They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly 
they blaw, [Nannie's awa' I 

They mind me o' Nannie — and 

Thou laverock that springs frae the 

dews of the lawn. 
The shepherd to warn o' the gray 

breaking dawn, [night fa'. 

And thou mellow mavis that hails the 
Give over for pity — ^my Nannie's awa'! 

Come, Autumn sae pensive, in yellow 
and gray, [decay: 

And soothe me with tidings o' Nature's 

The dark dreary winter, and wild driv- 
ing snaw, [awa' ! 

Alane can delight me — now Nannie's 



WANDERING WILLIE. 

In composing this song, Burns is thought to 
have thrown himself sympathetically into 
the circumstances of his mistress— Clarinda 
— and to have given expression to the feel- 
ings with which he supposed her to be ani- 
mated in seeking, after a separation of 
many years, a reunion with her wayward, 
wandering husband. The idea of this sonff 
appears to have been taken from an old 
one, of which the two following verses have 
been preserved ; — 

" Here awa', there awa', here awa', Willie, 
Here awa', there awa', here awa' hame ; 
Long have I sought thee, dear have I bought 
thee. 
Now I hae gotten my Willie again. 

" Through the lang muir I have foUow'd mf 
Willie. 
Through the lang muir I have foUow'd 
him hame ; 
Whatever betide us, nought shall divide us, 
Love now rewards all my sorrow and 
pain." 



«Wood. 



»Dew. 



j834 



BtRNS' WOttKS. 



Here awa', there awa', wandering 

Willie, |"hame; 

Here awa', there awa*, hand awa' 

Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie. 

Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie 

the same. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at 

our parting, [in my ee; 

Fears for my Willie brought tears 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome 

my Willie — [to me. 

The simmer to nature, my Willie 

Best, ye wild storms, in the cave of 

your slumbers, [alarms ! 

How your dread howling a lover 

Wauken, ye breezes 1 row gently, ye 

billows ! [to my arms ! 

And waft my dear laddie ance mair 

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na 

his Nannie, [roaring main ! 

Flow still between us thou wide 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 

But, dying, believe that my Willie's 

my ain. 



THE DEIL'S AWA' WI' THE 
EXCISEMAN. 

Tune — "The deil cam fiddling through the 
town." 

The deil cam fiddling through the 
town. 

And danced awa' wi' the Exciseman, 
And ilka wife cries — " Auld Mahoun, 

I wish you luck o' the prize, man 1" 

The deil's awa', the deil's awa'. 
The deil's awa' wi' the Exciseman; 

He's danced awa', he's danced awa*, 
He's danced awa' wi' the Excise- 
man 1 

We'll mak our maut, we'll brew our 

drink, [man; 

We'll dance and sing, and rejoice. 

And mony braw thanks to the meikle 

black deil ' 

That danced awa' wi' the Exciseman. 

The deil's awa', the deil's awa'. 
The deil's awa' wi' the Exciseman : 



He's danced awa', he's danced awa*. 
He's danced awa* wi' the Excisei 
man! 

There's threesome reels, there's four- 

some reels, [man- 

There's hornpipes and strathspeys, 

But the ae best dance e'er cam to tha 

land, [man 

Was — the deil's awa' wi* the Excise- 

The deil's awa*, the deil's awa', 
The deil's awa' wi' the Exciseman; 

He's danced awa', he's danced awa'. 
He's danced awa' wi' the Excise 
man ' 



BONNY LESLEY. 

The poet in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, gives th« 
following account of the origin of this song : 
— " Apropos !— do you know that I am 
almost in love with an acquaintance of 
yours? Know, then," said he, "that the 
heart-struck awe, the distant humble 
approach, the delight we should have in 
gazing upon and listening to a messenger of 
Heaven, appearing in all the unspotted pur- 
ity of his celestial home, among the coarse, 
polluted, far inferior sons of men, to deliver 
to them tidings that should make their 
hearts swim in joy, and their imaginations 
soar in transport,— such, so delighting and 
and so pure, were the emotions of my soul 
on meeting the other day with Miss Lesley 
Baillie, your neighbour at Mayfield. Mr. 
Baillie, with his two daughters, accompanied 
by Mr. H. of G., passing through Dumfries 
a few days ago, on their way to England, 
did me the honour of calling on me, on 
which I took my horse, (though God knows 
I could ill spare the time,) and accompanied 
them fourteen or fifteen miles, and dined 
and spent the day with them. 'Twas about 
nine, I think, when I left them ; and riding 
home, I composed the following ballad. 
You must know that there is an old ona 
beginning with— 

' My bonny Lizzie Baillie, 

1*11 rowe thee in my plaidie, &c. 

So I parodied it as follows." Miss Baillis 
ultimately became Mrs. Gumming of Logie, 
and died in Edinburg in 1843. 

Oh, saw ye bonny Lesley 
As she gaed o'er the Border? 

She's gane like Alexander, 
To spread her conquests faxtheiv 

To see her is to love her, 

And love but her forever; 
For Nature made hbr what she ig 

And never made anither ! , 



SONGS. 



m 



Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee; 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The deil he couldna skaith' thee, 
Nor aught that wad belang thee; 

He'd look into thy bonny face. 
And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

'The powers aboon will tent^ thee; 

Misfortune sha' na steer thee: 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Eeturn again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonny 



CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. 

The poet composed the following song to aid 
the eloquence of a Mr. Gillespie, a friend of 
his, who was paying his addresses to a Miss 
Lorimer, a young lady who resided at a 
beautiful place on the banks of the Moffat, 
called Craigie-burn Wood. 

Sweet closes the evening on Cragie- 

burn Wood, 

And blithely awaukens the morrow; 

But the pride of the spring in the 

Craigie-burn Wood 

Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, 
dearie, 
And oh! to be lying beyond thee; 
Oh, sweetly, soundly, weel may he 
sleep 
That's laid in the bed beyond 
thee! 

1 see the spreading leaves and flowers, 
I hear the wild birds singing; 

But pleasure they hae nane for me, 
While care my heart is wringing. 

I canna tell, I maunna tell, 

I darena for your anger; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 



I see thee gracefu', straight, and tall; 

I see thee sweet and bonny; 
But oh, what will my torments be. 

If thou refuse thy Johnnie 1 

To see thee in anither's arms, 
In love to lie and languish, 

'Twad be my dead,^ that will be seen 
My heart wad burst wi' anguish. 

But, Jeanie, say thou vsdlt be mine. 
Say thou lo'es nane before mej 

And a' my days o' life to come 
I'll gratefully adore thee. 



SECOND VERSION. 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-bum, 
And blithe awakes the morrow; 

But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can yield me nought but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading trees, 
I hear the wild birds singing; 

But what a weary wight can please, 
And care his bosom wringing ? 

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 

Yet darena for your anger; 
But secret love will break my heart. 

If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shalt love anither, 
When yon green leaves fade frae tli» 
tree. 

Around my grave they'll wither. 



» Harm. a Guard. 



FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND 
I LOVE. 

Air—" Carron Side." 
In his notes to the Museum^ the poet says of 
this song :— " I added the last four lines by 
way of giving a turn to the theme of the 
poem— such as it is.'' The entire song, 
however, was in his own handwriting, and 
is generally thought to be his own composi- 
tion, as the other twelve lines have not been 
found in any collection. 

Frae the friends and land I love, 
Driven by Fortune's felly' spite. 



1 Death. 



> Relentless. 



t3d 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Frae my best-beloved I rove, 
Never mair to taste delight; 

JJever mair maun bope to find 
Ease frae toil, relief frae care: 

When remembrance wracks the mind, 
Pleasures but unveil despair. 

Brightest climes shall mirk appear, 

Desert ilka blooming shore, 
Till the Fates, nae mair severe, 

Friendship, Love, and Peace restore; 
Till Revenge, wi' laurell'd head, 

Bring our banish'd name again; 
And ilka loyal bonny lad 

Cross the seas and win his ain. 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 

Tune -" My Tocher's the Jewel" 

Oh meikle thinks my luve o' my 

beauty, fkin; 

And meikle thinks my luve o^ my 

But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie^ 

My tocher's''^ the jewel has charms 

for him, [tree; 

It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the 

bee; [siller 

My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny,^ 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy; 
But an ye be crafty I am cunnin', [try. 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun 

Ye're like to the timmer* o' yon rotten 

wood, • [tree, 

Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten 
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

And ye'll crack^ your credit wi' mae* 
nor me. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO ? 

Tune — " What can a younff lassie do wi' an 
auld man?^' 

What can a young lassie, what shall 

a young lassie, [auld man ? 

What can a young lassie do wi' an 



' Know well. 2 Dowry. » Money given as 
earnest of i bargain. ♦Timber. ^Injure. 
♦ More. 



Bad luck on the penny that tempte4 
my minnie' [and lai>!* 

To sell her poor Jenny for siller 
Bad luck on the penny, &c. 

He's always compleenin' frae mornin* 

to e'enin', . [day lang; 

He hoasts'' and he hirples^ the weary 

He's doyl'f* and he's dozen^ his bluid it 

is frozen, [man ! 

Oh, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld [ 

He's doyl't and he's dozen, &c. 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and 

he cankers, [I can; 

I never can ple.ase him do a* that 

He's peevish and jealous of a' tho 

young fellows: [auld man 1 

Oh, dooP on the day I met wi' an 

He's peevish and jealous, &c. 

My auld Auntie Katie upon me taks 

pity, [plan ! 

I'll do my endeavour to follow her 

I'll cross him, and wrack him, until 1 

heart-break him. 

And then his auld brass will buy 

me a new pan. [&c. 

I'll cross him, and wrack him. 



OH, HOW CAN I BE BLITHE ANL 

GLAD? 

Tune—" Owre the hills and far awa'." 

Oh, how can I be blithe and glad. 
Or how can I gang brisk and braw. 

When the bonny lad that I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills and far awa'? 

When the bonny lad that I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills and far awa'? 

It's no the frosty winter wind, 
It's no the driving drift and snaw; 

But aye the tear comes in my ee. 
To think on him that's far awa'. 

But aye the tear comes in my ee. 
To think on him that's far awa*. 

My father pat me frae his door. 

My friends they hae disown'd me a\ 

But I hae ane will tak my part. 
The bonny lad that's far awa'. 



1 Mother. « Coughs. 3 Limps. * Craze4 
6 Benumbed. «Woe. 



I 



SONGS. 



237 



But 1 hae ane will tak my part. 
The bonny lad that's far awa'. 

A pair o' gloves he bought for me, 
And silken snoods* he gae me twa; 

And I will wear them for his sake, — 
The bonny lad that's far awa'. 

And I will wear them for his sake, — 
The bonny lad that's far awa'. 

Oh, weary winter soon will pass, 
And spring will deed the birken- 
shaw;^ 

And my young baby will be bom. 
And he'll be hame that's far awa'. 

And my young baby will be born. 
And he'll be hame that's far awa'. 



I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE 
FAIR. 

Tune—" I do confess thou art sae fair." 

This song was altered by the poet into Scotch, 
from a poem by Sir Robert Ayton, private 
secretary to Anne, consort of James VI. 
" I think," says Burns, " that I have im- 
proved the simplicity of the sentiments by 
giving them a Scots dress." * 



* Birch-wood. 
* See p. —note: 
* The following are the ol J words : — 

* I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair, 

And I might have gone near to love thee; 
Had I not found the slightest prayer 

That lips could speak had power to move 
But I can let thee now alone, [thee. 

As worthy to be loved by none. 

* I do confess thou'rt sweet • yet find 

Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, 
Thy favours are but like the wind, 

That kisseth everything it meets ; 
And since thou canst with more than one, 
Thou'rt worthy to be kissed by none. 

'The morning rose, that untouch'd stands, 
Arm'd with her briers, how sweetly 
. smells ! [hands. 

But, pluck'd and strain'd through ruder 

Her sweet no longer with her dwells, 
But scent and beauty both are gone. 
And leaves fall from her, one by one. 

'Such fate, ere lo.ig, will thee betide. 

When thou b'^st handled been a while, 
Like sun-flowe.i- to be thrown aside. 

And I shall sigh while some will smile, 
To see thy lov*" for more than one 
Hath brought tuee to be loved by none." 



I DO confess tnou art sae fair. 

I wud been owr*, the lugs' in luve, 
Had I na found the slightest prayer 

That lips could speak thy heart could 
move. 
I do confess thee sweet, but find 

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, 
Thy favours are the silly wind. 

That kisses ilka thing it meets. 

See yonder rosebud, rich in dew, 

Amang its native briers sae coy; 
How sune it tines"^ its scent and hue 

When pu'd and worn a common toy! 
Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, 

Though thou may gayly bloom a 
while; 
Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside 

Like ony common weed and vile. 



YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS 

Tune—" Yon wild mossy mountains." 

"This song," says the poet, "alludes to » 
part of my private history which it is of no 
consequence to the world to know." 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty 

and wide, [the Clyde, 

That nurse in their bosom the youth o' 
Where the grouse lead their coveys 

through the heather to feed. 
And the shepherd tends his flock as he 

pipes on his reed. 
Where the grouse lead their coveys 

through the heather to feed. 
And the shepherd tends his flock as 

he pipes on his reed. 

Not Qowrie's rich valleys, nor Perth's 

sunny shores, [moors; 

To me hae the charms o' yon wild mossy 

For there, by a lanely, sequester'd 

clear stream, [my dream. 

Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and 

For there, by a lanely, sequester'd 

clear stream, [and my dream. 

Resides a sweet lassie, my thought 

Amang thae wild mountains shall still 
be my path, [narrow strath; 

Ilk stream foaming down its ain green 

For there, wi' my lassie, the day-lang 
I rove, [hours o' love. 

While o'er us unheeded, flee the swift 



t£ars. 



• Loses, 



BURNS' WOEKS. 



For there, wi' my lassie, the day-lang 

I rove, 
While o'er us, unheeded, flee the 

swift hours o' love. 

She is not the fairest, although she is 

fair; 

O' nice education hut sma' is her share; 

Her parentage humble as humble can 

be; [lo'esme. 

But I lo'e the dear lassie because she 

Her parentage humble as humble 

can be, [she lo'es me. 

But I lo'e the dear lassie, because 

To beauty what man but maun yield 

him a prize, [and sighs ? 

In her armour of glances, and blushes, 

And when wit and refinement hae pol- 

ish'd her darts, [hearts. 

They dazzle our een as faey fly to our 

And when wit and refinement hae 

polish'd her darts, [our hearts. 

They dazzle our een as they fly to 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the 
fond sparkling ee, [me; 

Has lustre outshining the diamond to 

And the heart-beating love, as I'm 
clasp'dinlier arms. [charms! 

Oh, these are my lassie's all-conquering 
And the heart-beating love, as I'm 

clasped in her arms. 
Oh, these are my lassie's all-conquer- 
ing charms ! 



OH FOR ANE-AND-TWENTY, 
TA^I! 

Tune—" The Moudiewort." 
And oh for ane-and-twenty, Tam ! 
And hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, 
Tam ! 
I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, 
An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. 

They snooP me sair, and hand me 

down. 

And gar me look like bluntie,^ Tam; 

But three short years will soon wlieel 

roun'— - [Tam. 

And then comes ane-and-twenty. 



> Curb* > A simpleton. 



A gleib o' Ian ^ a claut o' gear,* 
Was left me by my auntie, Tam; 

At kith or kin I needna spier,* 
An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. 

The'll hae me wed a wealthy coof.* 
Though I mysel hae plenty, Tam; 

But hear'st thou, laddie — there's mj 
loof^— 
I'm thine at ane-and-twenty, Tam. 



BESS AND HER SPINNING- 
WHEEL. 

Tune—" The sweet lass that lo'es me." 
Oh, leeze me on my spinning-wheel. 
And leeze me on my rock and reel; 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien,' 
And haps"^ me fieP and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me downand sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun. 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal-^ 
Oh, leeze me on my spinning-wheel 1 

On ilka hand the burnies trot,* 
And meet below my theekit cot; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white, 
Across the pool their arms unite. 
Alike to screen the birdies' nest. 
And little fishes' caller' rest; 
The sun blinks kindly in the beil,' 
Where blithe I turn my spinning, 
wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats'' wail. 
And echo cons the doolfu'^ tale; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes. 
Delighted, rival ither s lays; 
The craik^ amang the clover hay. 
The paitrick whirrin' o'er the ley. 
The swallow jinkin' round my shie?,** 
Amuse me at my spinning-wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy. 
Oh, wha wad leave this humble static 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys. 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joyi^ 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning wheel ? 



3 A portion of ground. * A sum of money 
6 Ask. « Fool. ' Hand. 

1 Comfortably. » Wraps. • Soft. * Run, 
6 Cool. «*Sheltered place. ' Wood-pigeott 
8 Woeful. » Landrail. "Cottage. 



SONQS. 



93y 



NITIiSDALE'S WELCOME HAME. 

This song was written to celebrate th^ return 
to Scotland of Lady Winifred Maxwell, a 
descendant of the attainted Earl of Niths- 
dale. The music to which the poet com- 
posed the verses was by Captain Riddel of 
Glenhddel. 

The noble Maxwells and tlieir powers 

Are coming o'er the Border, 
Ind they'll gae big Terregle's towers, 

And set them a' in order. 
And they declare Terregle's fair, 

For their abode they choose it; 
There's no a heart in a' the land 

But's lighter at the news o't. 

Though stars in skies may disappear. 

And angry tempests gather; 
The happy hour may soon be near 

That brings us pleasant weather 
The weary night o' care and grief 

May haea joyfu' morrow; 
So dawning day has brought relief — 

J'areweel our night o' sorrow ! 



COUNTRIE LASSIE. 

Tune—" The Country Lass." 

In simmer, when the hay was mawn, 

And corn waved green in ilka field, 
While clover blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blawin ilka bield;' 
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel,^ 

Says, * ' I'll be wed, come o't what 
will:" 
Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild^ — 

" O' guid advisement comes na ill. 

*' It's ye hae wooers mony ane. 

And, lassie, ye're but young, ye ken; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale,"* 

Arouthie butt, a routine ben:^ 
There's Johnnie o' the Buskie Glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre; 
lak this frae me, my bonny hen. 

It's plenty beats the luver's fire." 

" For Johnnie o' the Buskie Glen, 

I dinna care a single file; 
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, 

He has nae luve to spare for me: 

» Shelterea piace. " Shed. 3 Age. * Wisely 
choose, * A home with plenty in it. 



But blithe's the blink o' Robbie's ee. 
And weel I wat he lo'es me dear: 

Ae blink o' him I wadna gie 
For Buskie Glen and a' his gear." 

"Oh, thoughtless lassie, life's a 
f aught;'' 
The canniest gate,' the strife is sair: 
But ay f u'-hant is fechtin' best, 
A hungry care's an unco care: 
But some will spend, and some wiU 
spare. 
And wilfu' folk maun hae their will; 
Syne^ as ye brew, my maiden fair, 
Keep mind that ye maun drink the 
yill." 

" Oh, gear will buy me rigs o' land. 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye; 
But the tender heart o' leesome^ luve 

The gowd and siller canna buy; 
We may be poor — Robbie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and luve bring peace and joy— % 

What mair hae queens upon a 
throne ?" 



FAIR ELIZA. 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rue on thy despairing lover! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart T 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza; 

If to love thy heart denies. 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kmd disguise! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee: 
Canst thou wreck his peace forev«r 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 
While the life beats in my bosom. 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe; 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom. 
In the pride o' sunny noon; 

Not the little sporting fairy» 
All beneath the simmer moon: 



« Struggle, 
some. 



"< Easiest way. » And. » Gla4| 



m 



-BXTR^S' WOUItS. 



Not the poet, in tlie moment 

Fancy lightens in his ee, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 

That thy presence gies to me. 



OH, LUVE WILL VENTURE IN. 
Tune—" The Posie." 

Oh, luve will venture in 

Where it daurna weel be seen; 
Oh, love will venture in 

Where wisdom ance has been; 
But I will down yon river rove, 

Amang the woods sae green — 
And a* to pu' a posie 

To my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', 

The firstling of the year; 
And I will pa' the pink. 

The emblem o' my dear; 
For she's the pink o' womankind. 

And blooms without a peer — 
And a' to be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 

m pu' the budding rose. 

When Phoebus peeps in view, 
For it's like a baumy kiss 

O' her sweet, bonny mou'; 
The hyacinth's for constancy, 

Wi' its unchanging blue — 
And a' to be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure. 

And the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom 

I'll place the lily there; 
The daisy's for simplicity, 

And unaffected air — 
And a' to be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu', 

Wi' its locks o' siller gray. 
Where, like an aged man. 

It stands at break of day. [bush 
But the songster's nest within the 

I winna tak away — 
And a' to be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu', 
Wheu the evening star is near. 



And the diamond draps o' deyf 
Shall be her een sae clear ; 

The violet's for modesty. 

Which weel she fa's to weM>— 

And a' to be a posie 
To my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the posie round 

Wi' the silken band of love. 
And I'll place it in her breast/ 

And I'll swear by a' above. 
That to my latest draught o' life 

The band shall ne'er remove— 
And this will be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 



THE BANKS O' DOON. 

Tune—*' Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

This is a second version of the song which 
the poet composed in 1787: and although 
greatly inferior in many respects to the first, 
it has almost entirely superseded it. For 
the subject of the song, see the first version, 
p. 203. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and 
fair ; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds. 

And I sae weary, fu' o' care 1 
Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling 
bird, [thorn ; 

That wantons through the lowering 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed — never to return ! 

Oft hae I roved by bonny Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twinej 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve. 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fause luver stole my rose, 

But, ah I he left the thorn wi' m«. 



"SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 

Tune—" The Eight Men of Moidart." 
Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 

The spot they ca'd it Linkum-doddiei 
Willie was a wabster' guid. 

Could stown^ a clue wi' ony bodie; 
He had a wife was dour and din. 

Oh, Tinkler Madgie was her mithei^ 



1 Weaver. 



' Stol«o, 



SON(^S. 



1141 



Sic a wife as Willie had, 
I wadna gie a button for her. 

She has an ee — she has but ane, 

The cat has twathe very colour- 
Five rusty teeth, forbye^ a stump, 

A clapper- tongue wad deave a miller; 
A whiskin' beard about her mou'. 

Her nose and chin they threaten 
ither — 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wadna gie a button for her. 

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, 

Ae limpin' leg, a hand-breed shorter; 
She's twisted right, she's twisted left. 

To balance fair in ilka quarter ; 
She has a hump upon her breast, 

The twin o' that upon her shouther — 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wadna gie a button for her. 

Auld baudrons"* by the ingle^ sits. 

And wi' her loof^ her face a-washin'; 
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig,'' 

She dights her grunzie*^ wi, a hush- 
ion ;» 
Her walie nieves'<^ like midden-creels. 

Her face wad fyle the Logan Water — 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wadna gie a button for her. 



SMILING SPRING COMES IN 

REJOICING. 

Tune—" The Bonny Bell.' 

The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, 
,, And surly Winter grimly flies; 
Now crystal clear are the falling wa- 
ters, 

And bonny blue are the sunny skies; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth 
the morning. 

The evening gilds the ocean's swell; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning, 

And I rejoice in my bonny Bell. 

The flowery Spring leads sunny Sum- 
mer, 

And yellow Autumn presses near. 
Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, 

Till smiling Spring again appear. 

» Besides, < The Cat.^ Fire. « Palm. ^ Clean. 
IHouth* ft An old stocking, w Ample fists. 



Thus seasons dancing, life advancing. 
Old Time and Nature their changes 
tell. 

But never ranging, still unchanging, 
I adore my bouiiy Bell. 



THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Tune—" The Weavers' March." 
Where Cart* rins rowin' to the sea, 
By mony a flower and spreading tree. 
Their lives a lad, the lad for me. 

He is a gallant weaver. 
Oh, I had wooers aught or nine. 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine; 
And I was fear'd my heart would tine,' 

And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher- band,* 
To gie the lad that has the land, 
But to my heart I'll add my hand. 

And gie it to the weaver. 
While birds rejoice in leafy bowers; 
While bees delight in opening flowers; 
While corn grows green in summer 
showers, 

I'll love my gallant weaver. 

SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

Tune — " She's Fair and Fause." 
She's fair and fause that causes my 
smart, 
I lo'ed her meikle and lang; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my 
• heart, 
And I may e'en gae hang, 
A coof cam wi' routh o'gear,* 
And I hae tint^ my dearest dear; 
But woman is but warld's gear, 
Sae let the bonny lassie gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love. 

To this be never blind, 
Nae f erlie'* 'tis, though fickle she prove, 

A woman lias't by kind, 
O woman, lovely woman fair! 
An angel form's fa'n to thy share: 
'Twad been o'er meikle to gien^ thee 
mair — 

I mean an angel mind. 



■» "Lose. * Marriage-deed, 
1 Fool, 2 Abundance of wealth. * Lost 
* Wonder. ^ Have given. 

* The Cart is a river in Renfrewshire, 
which runs through the town of Paisley^ cele* 
brated for the labours oi the loom^ 



S43 



BURNS' WORKS. 



MY AIN KIND DEARIE, O. 
Tune—" The Lea-Rig." 
When o'er the hill the eastern star 

Tells bughtin-time' is near, my jo; 
And owsen frae the f urrow'd field 
Return sae dowf^ and weary, 0; 
Down by the burn, where scented 
birks^ 
Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, ■* 
My ain* kind dearie, ! 

In mirkest^ glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, ^ O; 
If through that ^len I gaed to thee. 

My ain kind dearie, ! 
Although the night were ne'er sae wild, 

And I were ne'er sae wearie, O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea- rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O! 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen. 

Along the burn to steer, my jo; 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin' gray, 

It maks my heart sae cheery, 0, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O 1 



MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE 
THING. 

The following lively lines, the poet tells us, 
were written extempore to the old air of 
" My Wife's a Wanton Wee Thing :— 

She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonny wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 
1 never lo'ed a dearer: 
And neist my heart I'll wear her, 
For fear my jewel tine.^ 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing. 
She is a bonny wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 



» Folding-time. - Dull. ^ Birches. 

• Grassy ridge. * Darkest. ^ Frightened. 

» Be lost 



The warld's wrack we share o't. 
The warstle and the care o't; 
Wi' her I'll blithely bear it, 
And think my lot divine. 



HIGHLAND MARY. 

Tune— " Kathrine Ogie." 
This is another of those glorious lyrics inspir* 
ed by the poet's passion for Highland Maryi 
and which celebrates, in strains worthy of 
the occasion, their last interview, and her 
untimely and lamented death. " The follow- 
ing song." he says, in a letter to Thomson, 
enclosing the verses, " pleases me : I think 
it is in my happiest manner. The subject of 
the song is one of the most interesting pas- 
sages of my youthful days ; and I own that 
I should be much flattered to see the verses 
set to an air which would insure celebrity. 
Perhaps, after all, it is the still glowing 
prejudice of my heart that throws a borrow- 
ed lustre over the merits of the composi- 
tion." See p. 219, for an account of Mary. 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams 
around 

The castle o' Montgomery, [flowers, 
Green be your woods, and fair your 

Your waters never drumlie !^ 
There simmer first unfaulds her robes. 

And there the langest tarry; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

0' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green 
birk r^ 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ! 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasped her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er m^j and my dearie; 
For dear to me, as light and life. 

Was my sweet Highland Mary 1 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace. 

Our parting was fu' tender; 
And, pledging aft to meet again. 

We tore oursels asunder; 
But, oh ! fell Death's untimely frost. 

That nipt my flower sae early ! — 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the 
clay. 

That wraps my Highland Mary I 

Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling 
glance 
That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 

<% 

^ Muddy. ^ Bir«b. 



soNas. 



M 



And mouldering now in silent dust 
That heart that lo'ed me dearly — 

But still within my bosom's core 
Shall live my Highland Mary I 



AULD BOB MORRIS. 

The two first lines of the following song were 
taken from an old ballad— the rest is the 
poet's : — 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons' 

in yon glen, 
He's tlie king o' guid fellows and 

wale- of auld men; 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has 

owsen and kine, [mine. 

And ae bonny lassie, his darling and 

She's fresh as the morning the fairest 
in May: [new hay; 

She's sweet as the evening amang the 

As blithe and as artless as lambs on 
the lea, [my ee. 

And dear to my heart as the light to 

But oh ! she's an heiress — auld Robin's 
a laird, [house and yard; 

And my daddie has nought but a cot- 

A wooer like me maunna hope to come 
speed; [be my dead.^ 

The wounds I must hide that will soon 

The day comes to me, but delight 
brings me nane; [itisgane; 

The night comes to me, but my rest 

I wander my lane like a night-troubled 
gliaist, [my breast. 

And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in 

Oh, had she but been of a lower degree, 
I then might hae hoped she'd hae 

smiled upon me ! [my bliss, 

Oh, how past descriving* had then been 
As now my distraction no words can 

express ! 



DUNCAN GRAY. 

*^l'his song was written on the model and to 
:he tune of a coarse old ditty in Johnson's 
Museum^ the name of the hero, and a line or 
f wo, being all that was retained. 

t>iT]TCAN Gray cam here to woo. 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 

* Dwells. ^ Choice. ^ Death. * Describing. 



On blithe yule night when we were fou, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,* 
Gart poor Duncan stand abei^;* 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd,^ and Duncan pray'd, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't: 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,* 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
G raf* his een baith bleert and blin', 
Spak o' lowpin' o'er a linn; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Time and chance are but a tide; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't; 
Slighted love is sair to bide; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he. 
For a haughty hizzie die ? 
She may gae to — France for me * 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

How it comes let doctors tell; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't; 
Meg grew sick as he grew heal; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Something in her bosom wrings. 
For relief a sigh she brings; 
And oh, her een, they spak sic tMngsl 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't; 
Maggie's was a piteous case; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Duncan couldna be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor'd^ his wrath; 
Now they're crouse and canty® baith; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



COCK UP YOUR BEAVER. 

Tune—" Cock up your beaver." 

The second stanza only of this song is Burns' 
—the first is old. 

When first my brave Johnnie lad 

Came to this town, 
He had a blue bonnet 

That wanted the crown; 

* Disdainful. 2 Aloof. » Flattered. * Wept. 
5 Smothered. ^ Cheerful and happy. 

* A well-known rocky islet in the Frith ol 
Clyde. 



244 



BURNS' WORKS. 



But now he has gotten 
A hat and a feather, — 

Hey, brave Johnnie lad. 
Cock up your beaver 1 

Cock up your beaver, 
, And cock it fu' sprush. 
We'll over the Border 

And gie them a brush; 
There's somebody there 

We'll teach them behaviour- 
Hey, brave Johnnie lad, 

Cock up your beaver ! 



BONNY PEG. 
As I came in by our gate end. 

As day vi^as waxin' weary, 
Oh, wha came tripping down the street, 

But bonny Peg, my dearie ! 

Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, 
Wi' nae proportion wanting, 

The Queen of Love did never move 
Wi' a motion mair enchanting. 

Wi' linked hands, we took the sands 

Adown yon winding river; 
And, oh! that hour and broomy bower. 

Can I forget it ever ? 



THE TITHER MORN. 

To a Highland Air. 

The tither mom, 

When I forlorn, 
An«ath an aik sat moaning, 

I did na trow* 

I'd see my jo^ 
Beside me gin the gloaming. 

But he sae trig^ 

Lap o'er the rig, 
And dawtingly* did cheer me, 

When I, what reck, 

Did least expec' 
To see my lad sae near me. 

His bonnet he, 

A thought ajee, 
CJock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me; 

And I, I wat,^ 

Wi' fainness grat,^ 
While in his grips he press'd me. 

Deil tak the war I 

I late and air 



» Think. « Dear. s Neat. 
»Ko«w. «Wept. 



Lovingly. 



Hae wish'd since Jock departed; 

But now as glad 

I'm wi" my lad 
As short syne broken-hearted. 

Fu' aft at e'en 

Wi' dancing keen. 
When a' were blithe and merry, 

I cared na by, 

Sae sad was I 
In absence o' my dearie. 

But, praise be blest. 

My mind's at rest, 
I'n happy wi' my Johnny ; 

At kirk and fair, 

I'se aye be there. 
Ana be as canty' s'' ony. 



THE DEUK'S DANG O'ER Ml 
DADDIE, O. 

Tune—" The deuk's dang o'er my daddie. * 

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout. 

The deuk's' dang o'er my daddie, 01 
The fient may care, quo' the feirit? 
auld wife. 

He was but a paidlin^ body, O! 
He paidles out, and he paidles in, 

And he paidles late and early, O! 
Thae seven lang years I hae lien by 
his side. 

And he is but a fusionless^ carlie, 0! 

Oh, haud your tongue, my feirie auld 
wife; [01 

Oh, haud your tongue now, Nansie, 
I've seen the day, and sae hae ye. 

Ye wadna been sae donsie,* O! 
I've seen the day ye butter'd my brose 

And cuddled** me late and early, 0/ 
But downa do's' come o'er me now. 

And, oh! I feel it sairly, 01 



HAPPY FRIENDSHIP. 

Here around the ingle' bleezing, 
Wha sae happy and sae free; 

Though the northern wind bla"w» 
freezing, 
Frien'ship warms baith you and m«. 



Happy. 



3 Wandering aimlesslt 
about. * Sapless." ^ Pettish. « Fondled 



1 Duck. 



2 Sturdy. 
Sapless. 
^ A phrase signifying the exhaustion of age 



^ Fireside. 



SONGS. 



345 



Happy we are a' tliegitlier, 
Happy we'll be yin and a' ; 

lime shall see us a' the blither, 
Ere we rise to gang awa'. 

See the miser o'er his treasure 

Gloating wi' a greedy ee! 
Can he feel the glow o' pleasure 

That around us here we see ? 

Can the peer, in silk and ermine, 
Ca' his conscience half his own; 

His claes- are spun and edged wi' ver- 
min, 
Though he stan' afore a throne ! 

Thus, then, let us a' be tassing' 
AS. our stoups o' gen'rous flame; 

And, while round the board 'tis pass- 
ing, 
Raise a sang in f rien'ship's name 

Prien'ship maks us a' mair happy, 
Frien'ship gies us a' delight; 

Frien'ship consecrates the drappie, 
Frien'ship brings us here to-night. 



OH, SAW YE MY DEARIE. 

Tune— "Eppie M'Nab." 
Oh, saw ye my dearie, my Eppie 

M'Nab ? [M'Nab ? 

Oh, saw ye my dearie, my Eppie 
She's down in the yard, she's kissin' 

the laird, [Rab. 

She winna come hame to her ain Jock 

Oh, come thy ways to me, my Eppie 
M'Nab! [M'Nab! 

Oh, come thy ways to me, my Eppie 

Whate'er thou hast done, be it late, be 
it soon, [Rab. 

Thou's welcome again to thy ain Jock 

What says she, my dearie, my Eppie 

M'Nab? [M'Nab? 

What says she, my dearie, my Eppie 

She lets thee to wit, ^ that she has thee 

forgot, [Rab. 

And forever disowns thee, her ain Jock 

Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie 

M'Nab ! 



8 Clothes. « Tossing 

I Know. 



Oh, had I ne'er seen thee,, my Eppie 

M'Nab! 
As light as the air, as fause as thou'a 

fair, [Rab. 

Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jack 



THE CARLE OF KELLYBURN 
BRAES. 

Tune — " Kellyburn Braes." 

There lived a carle' in Kellyburn 

braes, [thyme;) 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonny wi' 

And he had a wife was the plague o' 

his days; [is in prime. 

And the thyme it is wither'd and rue 

Ae day as the carle gaed"^ up the lang 

glen, [thyme;) 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonny wi' 

He met wi' the devil, says, ' ' How do 

you fen ?^ [is in prime. 

And the thjTiie it is wither'd and rue 

" I've got a bad wife, sir: that's a' my 

complaint ; [thyiiie, ) 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonny wi' 

For, saving your presence, to her ye're 

a saint; [is in prime." 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue 

' ' It's neither your stot^ nor your 

staig^ I shall crave, [thyme,) 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonny wi' 

But gie me your wife, man, for her I 

must have, [rue is in prime.'* 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and 

"Oh! welcome, most kindly," the 

blithe carle said, [thyme,) 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonny wi' 

" But if ye can match her, ye're waur 

than ye're ca'd, [is in prime." 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue 

The devil has got the auld wife on his 

back; [thyme,) 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonny wi* 

And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried 

his pack, [is in prime. 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue 



J Man, 2 Went, » Live, * Bullock. » Colu 



246 



BURNS' WORKS. 



He's carried her hame to his ain hallan- 

door, [thyme,) 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonny wi' 

Syne bade her gae in, for a bitch and 
a whore, [is in prime. 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue 

Then straight he makes fifty, the pick 

o' his band, [thyme.) 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonny wi' 

Turn out on her guard in the clap of a 

hand; [is in prime. 

And the thyme it Is wither'd, and rue 

The carlin^ gaed through them like 

ony wud' bear, [thyme) 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonny wi' 

Whae'er she gat hands on cam near 

her na mair; [is in prime. 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue 

A reekit^ wee devil looks over the wa' ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonny wi' 

thyme,) [us a', 

"Oh, help, master, help! or she'll ruin 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and 

rue is in prime." 

The devil he swore by the edge o' his 

knife; [thyme,) 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonny wi' 

He pitied the man that was tied to a 

wife; [is in prime. 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue 

The devil he swore by the kirk and the 

bell, [thyme,) 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonny wi' 

He was not in wedlock, thank Heaven, 

but in hell; [is in prime. 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue 

Then Satan has travell'd again with 

his pack; [thyme,) 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonny wi' 

And to her auld husband he's carried 

her back; [is in prime, 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue 

" I hae been a devil the feck o' my 

life; [thjTiie,) 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonny wi' 

But ne'er was in hell, till 1 met wi' a 

wife; [is in prime." 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue 



Woman. ' Wild. ^ Smoked. 



Most. 



YE JACOBITES BY NAME. 

Tune—" Ye Jacobites by Name." 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an eal, 
give an ear ; 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear ; 
Ye Jacobites by name. 
Your fauts I will proclaim. 
Your doctrines 1 maun blame-* 
You shall hear. 

What is right, and what is wrang, by 
the law, by the law, 
What is right, and what is wrang, 
by the law ! 
What is right, and what is wrang t 
A short sword, and a lang, 
A weak arm and a Strang 
For to draw. 

What makes heroic strife famed afar, 
famed afar ? [afar 1 

What makes heroic strife famed 
What makes heroic strife ? 
To whet th' assassin's knife. 
Or hunt a parent's life 
Wi' bluidie war. 

Then let your schemes alone, in the 
state, in the state; [state ; 

Then let your schemes alone in the 
Then let your schemes alone. 
Adore the rising sun, 
And leave a man undone 
To his fate. 



AS I WAS A-WANDERINO. 

TuHfc — '' Rinn Meudial mo Mhealladh." 

As I was a- wandering ae midsummer 

e'enin': [king their game. 

The pipers and youngsters were ma- 

Amang them I spied my faithless fause 

lover, [dolour again. 

Which bled a' the wound o' my 

Weel, since he has left me, may 
pleasure gae wi' him; 
I may be distress'd, but I winna 
complain ; 
I'll flatter my fancy I may get 
anither, 
My heart it shall nBver be broke* 
for ane. 



SONGS. 



S47 



I couldna get sleeping till dawin* for 

greeting,'^ [and the rain: 

The tears trickled down like the hail 

Had I na got greeting, my heart wad a 

broken, [ingpain! 

For, oh! luve forsaken's a torment- 

Although he has left me for greed o' 

the siller, [win; 

I dinna envy him the gains he can 

I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my 

sorrow [to him. 

Than ever hae acted sae faithless 



THE SLAVE'S LAMENT. 

It was in sweet Senegal that my foes 
did me enthral. 
For the lands of Virginia, O; 
Torn from that lovely shore, and must 
never see it more, 
And alas I am weary, weary, O ! 

All on that charming coast is no bitter 
snow or frost, 
Like the lands of Virginia, O; 
There streams forever flow, and there 
flowers forever blow, 
And alas I am weary, weary, O! 

The burden I must bear, while the 
cruel scourge I fear, 
In the lands of Virginia, O; 
And I think on friends most dear, with 
the bitter, bitter tear, 
And alas I am weary, weary, O! 



THE WEARY FUND O' TOW. 

Tune— "The Weary Fund o' Tow." 
I BOUGHT my wife a stane o' lint' 

As guid as e'er did grow; 
And a' tb at she has made o' that 

Is ae poor pund o' tow.« 

The weary pund, the weary pund. 
The weary pund o' tow; 

I think my wife will end her life 
Before she spin her tow. 

There sat a bottle in a bole, 
Beyont the ingle low,' 

^ Dawn. 3 Weeping^. 
^ Flax. 2 Hemp or flax in a prepared state. 
'Pkune of the fire. 



And aye she took the tither souk,* 
To drouk^ the stourie* tow. 

Quoth I, "For shame, ye dirty damci 
Gae spin your tap o tow ! " 

She took the rock, and wi' a knock 
She brak it o'er my pow. 

At last her feet — I sang to see 't— 
Gaed foremost o'er the knowe;' 

And or I wad anither jad, 
I'll wallop in a tow.^ 



LADY MARY ANN. 
Tune—" Craigton's Growing.*' 

Oh, Lady Mary Ann 

Looks o'er the castle w*\ 
She saw three bonny boys 

Playing at the ba'; 
The youngest he was 

The flower amang them a***' 
My bonny laddie's young. 

But he's growin' yet. 

O father ! O father 1 

An ye think it fit. 
We'll send him a year 

To the college yet : 
We'll sew a green ribbon 

Round about his hat. 
And that will let them ken 

He's to marry yet. 

Lady Mary Ann 

Was a flower i' the dew. 
Sweet was its smell, 

And bonny was its hue; 
And the langer it blossom'd 

The sweeter it grew; 
For the lily in the bud 

Will be bonnier yet. 

Young Charlie Cochrane 

Was the sprout of an aik; 
Bonny and bloomin' 

And straught was its make; 
The sun took delight 

To shine for its sake. 
And it will be the brag 

O' the forest yet. 

The simmer is gane 
When the leaves they were greeiv 



•* Swig. 5 Drench. 

8 Swing in a rope. 



Dusty. « im 



m 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And the days are awa' 

That we liae seen; 
But far better days 

I trust will come again, 
For my bonny laddie's young, 

But he's growin' yet. 



OH, KENMURE'S ON AND AWA'. 

Tune — " Oh, Kenmure's on and awa', Willie." 

*'This song," says Cunningham, "refers to 
the fortunes of the gallant Gordons of Ken- 
mure in the fatal ' Fifteen.' The Viscount 
left Galloway with two hundred horsemen 
well armed ; he joined the other lowland 
Jacobites — penetrated to Preston— repulsed, 
and at last yielded to, the attack of General 
Carpenter— and perished on the scaffold. 
He was a good as well as a brave man, and 
his fate was deeply lamented. The title has 
since been restored to the Gordon's line." 
Burns was, once at least, an invited guest 
at Kenmure Castle, near New Galloway. 

Oh, Kenmure's on and awa', Willie ! 

Oh, Kenmure's on and awa' ! 
And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord 

That ever Galloway saw. 

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie ! 

Success to Kenmure's band ; 
There's no a heart that fears a Whig 

That rides by Kenmure's hand. 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, 
Willie ! 
Here's Kenmure's health in wine; 
There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's 

blude, 
j Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 

Oh, Kenmure's lads are men, Willie ! 

Oh, Kenmure's lads are men; 
Their hearts and swords are metal 
true — 

And that their faes shall ken. 

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie 1 
They'll live or die wi' fame; 

But soon wi' sounding victorie 
May Kenmure's lord come hame I 

Here's him that's far awa', Willie ! 

Here's him that's far awa'! 
And here's the tiower that I lo'e best — 

1:11% rose that's like the suaw I 



MY COLLIER LADDIK 

Tune—" The Collier Laddie." 

" I do not know," says Burns, " a blither ol(| 
song than this ;" which he modified and 
altered, zind then sent to the Museum. 

Oh, whare live ye, my bonny lass ? 

And tell me what they ca' ye ? 
My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 
And I follow the Collier Laddie. 
My name, she says, is Mistress 

Jean, 
And I follow the Collier Laddie. 

Oh, see you not yon hills and dales, 

The sun shines on sae brawlie ! 
They a' are mine, and they shall bl 
thine. 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 
They a' are mine, and they shall 

be thine, 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie, 

And ye shall gang in gay attire, 

Weel buskit^ up sae gaudy; 
And ane to wait at every hand, 

Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 
And ane to wait at every hand. 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 

Though ye had a' the sun shines on. 

And the earth conceals sae lowly, 
I wad turn my back on you and it a'. 
And embrace my Collier Laddie, [a', 
I wad turn my back on you and it 
And embrace my Collier Laddie. 

I can win my five pennies a day, 

And spen't at night fu' brawlie; 

And mak my bed in the Collier's neuk* 

And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie. 

And mak my bed in the Collier's 

neuk, [die. 

And lie down wi' my Collier Lad- 

Luve for luve is the bargain for me. 

Though the wee cot-house should 

baud me; [breads 

And the warld before me to win mj 

And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. 

And the warld before me to wi« 

my bread. 
And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. 



1 Dressed, 



Huu 



SONGS. 



249 



fAREWELL TO A' OUR SCOTTISH 

FAME. 

Tune—" Such a Parcel of Rogues in a 
Nation." 

** Burns," says Cunningham, "has expressed 
sentiments in this song which were once 
popular in the north." The poet himself, 
indeed, appears to have been in the habit of 
expressing his feelings pretty freely regard- 
ing the Union.—" What," he exclaimed, on 
one occasion, " are all the advantages which 
my country reaps from the Union that can 
counterbalance the annihilation of her inde- 
pendence, and even her very name ? Noth- 
ing can reconcile me to the terms, ' English 
Ambassador,' ''English Court,' " &c. 

Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, 

Fareweel our ancient glory ! 
Pareweel even to the Scottish name, 

Sae famed in martial story ! 
Now Sark rins o'er the Sol way sands. 

And Tweed rins to the ocean. 
To mark where England's province 
stands — 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation ! 

Wliat force or guile could not subdue. 

Through many warlike ages, 
Is wrought iiow by a coward few. 

For hireling traitors' wages. 
The English steel we could disdain, 

Secure in valour's station; 
But English gold has been our bane — 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation ! 

Oh, would, ere I had seen the day 

That treason thus could sell us, 
My auld gray head had lien in clay, 

Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace ! 
But pith and power, till my last hour, 

I'll mak this declaration; [gold — 
We're bought and sold for English 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 



HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM 

THAT'S AWA'. 

Tune—" Here's a health "to them that's awa'." 

The poet's political predilections at this period 
of his life being somewhat marked, and of 
an ultra-liberal tendency, he is supposed to 
have thrown them into the following song, 
composed in honour of the leaders of the 
liberal party in the House of Commons :— 

Here's a health to them that's awa', 
"Here's a hestltU to them that's awa'i 



And wha winna wish guid luck to our 

cause, 
May never guid luck be their fa'f 
It's guid to be merry and wise, 
It's guid to be honest and true. 
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, 
And bide by the buff and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa'. 
Here's a health to them that's awa'. 
Here's a health to Charlie* the chief 

of the clan. 
Although that his band be but sma'. 
May Liberty meet wi' success ! 
May Prudence protect her frae evil ! 
May tyrants and tyranny tine in tht 

mist. 
And wander their way to the devil I 

Here's a health to them that's awa', 
Here's a health to them that's awa'. 
Here's a health to Tammie,f the Nor 

land laddie, 
That lives at the lug o' the law ! 
Here's freedom to him that wad read, 
Here's freedom to him that wad write! 
There's nane ever fear'd that the truth 

should be heard 
But they wham the truth wad indite.* 

Here's a health to them that's awa'. 
Here's a health to them that's awa*. 
Here's Chieftain M'Leod,:|: a chieftain 

worth gowd, 
Though bred amang mountains o' snawl 
Here's a health to them that's awa'. 
Here's a health to them that's awa'. 
And wha winna wish guid luck to oui 

cause, 
May never guid luck be their fa' ! 



ONG. 

Tune— •' I had a horse, I had nae mair." 
Oh, poortith^ cauld and restless love. 
Ye wreck my peace between ye; 

I 

* Indict— impeach. 
2 Poverty. 

* The Right Hon. Charles James Fox. Bufl 
and blue formed the livery of Fox during the 
celebrated Westminster elections, and thus 
came to be adopted as the colours of the 
Whig party generally. ' 

t Thomas, afterwards Lord, Erskine. 

X M'Leod of Dunvegan, Isle of Skye, aol 
th§a 14. P. for Invernesq. 



S50 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Yet poortith a' I could forgive. 
An 'twere na for my Jeanie. 

Oh, why should Fate sic pleasure 
have. 

Life's dearest bands untwining ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 

Depend on Fortune's shining ? 

This warld's wealth when I think on, 
' Its pride and a' the lave o't — 
Fie, fie on silly coward man. 
That he should be the slave o't. 

Her een sae bonny blue betray 
How she repays my passion; 

But prudence is her o'erword^ aye, 
She talks of rank and fashion. 

Oh, wha can prudence think upon. 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
Oh, wha can prudence think upon. 

And sae in love as I am ? 

How blest the humble cotter's fate ! 

He wooes his simple dearie; 
The silly bogles, wealth and state. 

Can never make them eerie."* 



GALA WATER. 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow 
braes, [heather, 

That wander through the blooming 
But Yarrow braes' nor Ettrick shaws^ 

Can match the lads o' Gala Water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better; 

And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 
The bonny lad o' Gala Water. 

Although his daddie was nae laird. 
And though I haena meikle tocher ;3 

Yet rich in kindest, truest love. 
We'll tent our flocks by Gala Water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
That coft^ contentment, peace, ©r 
pleasure; 

' Refrain. ♦ Afraid. 
> HiUs. ' Woo4s, » Much money. * Bought. 



The bands and bliss o' mutual love. 
Oh, that's the chiefest warld's treas- 
ure! 



LORD GREGORY. 

This sonff was written in imitation of Dr. 
Wolcot^ (Peter Pindar) ballad on the same 
subject,* of which Burns says, in a letter to 
Thomson, " Pindar's ' Lord Gregory ' is 
beautiful. I have tried to give you a Scots 
version, which is at your service. Not that I 
intend to enter the lists with Peter— that 
would be presumption indeed ! My song 
though much inferior in poetic merit, has,! 
think, more of the ballad simplicity in it." 
The idea of both songs, however, is taken 
from an old strain. 

Oh, mirk,' mirk is this midnight hour. 
And loud the tempest's roar; 

A waef u' wanderer seeks thy tower — 
Lord Gregory, ope thy door! 

An exile f rae her father's ha*. 

And a' for loving thee; 
At least some pity on me shaw. 

If love it may na be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the 
grove, 

By bonny Irwin-side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin love 

I lang, lang had denied ? 

How aften didst thou pledge and vow 
Thou wad for aye be mine; 

And my fond heart, itsel sae true. 
It ne'er mistrusted thine; 



1 Dark. 
♦ The following is Wolcot's version : — 

" Ah, ope, Lord Gregory, thy door! 
A midnight wanderer sighs. 
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar. 
And lightnings cleave the skies. 

Who comes with woe at this drear night-« 

A pilgrim of the gloom ? 
If she whose love did once delight, 

My cot shall yield her room. 

"' Alas ! thou heard 'st a pilgrim mourn 
That once was prized by thee ; 
Think of the ring by yonder burn 
Thou gav'st to love and me. 

" But shouldst thou not poor Marian know, 
I'll turn my feet and part ; 
And think the storms that round me blo» 
Far kinder than thy heart," 



SONGS. 



251 



Hard is tliy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And tliuiy is thy breast — 
Thou dart of heaven that fiashest by, 

Oh, wilt thou give me rest? 

Ye mustering thunders from above, 

Your willing victim see! 
But spare, and pardon my fause love 

His vvrangs to Heaven and me! 



OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH ! 

' Oh, open the door, some pity to show, 

Oh, open the door to me, oh! 
Though thou hast been false, I'll ever 
prove true. 
Oh, open the door to me, oh 1 

•*Cauld is the blast upon my pale 
cheek. 
But caulder thy love for me, oh ! 
The frost that freezes the life at my 
heart 
Is nought to my pains f rae thee, oh ! 

•* The wan moon is setting behind the 
white wave. 
And time is setting with me, oh! 
False friends, false love, farewell! for 
mair 
I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, oh!" 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd 

it wide; [oh! 

She sees his pale corse on the plain, 

"My true love!" she cried, and sank 

down by his side, 

Never to rise a^ain, oh! 



YOUNG JESSIE. 

Tune — " Bonny Dundee." 

TRUE-hearted was he, the sad swain o' 

the Yarrow, [o' the Ayr, 

And fair are the maids on the banks 

*^,But by the sweet side o' the Nith's 

winding river [fair: 

Are lovers as faithful and maidens as 

To equal young Jessie seek Scotland 

all over; [in vain; 

To equal young Jessie you seek it 

- Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her 

lover, [chain. 

And maidenly modesty fixes the 



Oh, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewf 
morning, [close; 

And sweet is the lily at evening 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young 
Jessie, [rose. 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded th« 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard en- 
snaring; [his law: 
Enthroned in her een he deliver* 
And still to her charms she alone is a 
stranger— [of a' I 
Her modest demeanour's the jewel 



THE POOR AND HONEST 
SODGER. 

Air— " The Mill, Mill O !" 
When wild war's deadly blast was 
blawn. 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless. 

And mony a widow mourning; 
I left the lines and tented field. 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor and honest sodger. 

A leal light heart was in my breast. 

My hand unstain'd wi' plunder. 
And for fair Scotia, hame again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o* Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy, 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonny glen 

Where early life I sported; 
I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn. 

Where Nancy aft I courted: 
Wlia spied' I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling I 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, ** Sweet 
lass, 

Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom. 
Oh! happy, happy may he be. 

That's dearest to thy bosom! 
My purse is light, I've far to gang, 

And fain wad be thy lodger; 
I've served my king and country lang— 

Take pity on a sodger." 

^Saw. 



25^ 



BtJRNS' WORKS. 



Sae wistfully she gazed on me, 

And lovelier was than ever; 
Quo' she, ' ' A sodger ance I lo'ed. 

Forget him shall I never: 
Our humble cot, and hamely fare. 

Ye freely shall partake it, 
That gallant badge — the dear cockade — 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't." 

She gazed — she redden'd like a rose — 

Syne^ pale like ony lily; 
She sank within my arms, and cried, 

" Art thou my ain dear Willie ?" 
" By Him who made yon sun and sky, 

By whom true love's regarded, 
I am the man ; and thus may still 

True lovers be rewarded! 

"The wars are o'er, and I'm come 
hame. 

And find thee still true-hearted; 
Though poor in gear, we're rich in 
love. 

And mair, we'se ne'er be parted." 
Quo' she, ' ' My grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailen^ plenish'd fairly. 
And come, my faithful sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!" 

For gold the merchant ploughs the 
main. 

The farmer ploughs the manor; 
But glory is the sodger's prize. 

The sodger's wealth is honour: 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise. 

Nor count him as a stranger; 
Bemember, he's his country's stay 

In day and hour of danger. 



MEG O' THE MILL. 



Air-" Hey 



bonny lr.ss, will you lie in a 
barrack?" 



Oh, ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has 
gotten ? [gotten ? 

Acd ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has 

She has gotten a coof ' wi' a claut o' 
siller, 2 [miller. 

And broken the heart o' the barley 

The miller was strappin', the miller 

was ruddy; [lad/; 

A heart like a lord, and a hue like a 

« Then. 3 Farm. 
* Lout. 2 Plenty of money. 



The laird was a widdietu', blfcerif 

knurl ;3 [churL 

She's left the guid-fellow and ta'en tha 

The miller he hecht* her a heart leal 
and loving; [mair moving. 

The laird did address her wi' matter 

A fine-pacing horse, wi' a clear-chain'd 
bridle, [saddle. 

A whip by her side, and a bonny side- 

Oh, wae on the siller, it is sae prevail- 
ing; [mailen!^ 

And wae on the love that is fixed on a 

A tocher's^ nae word in a true lover's 
parle, [warl'l 

But, gie me my love, and a fig for the 



WELCOME TO GENERAL 
DUMOURIER. 

Some one, in the presence of the poet, having 
expressed joy at the desertion of General 
Dumourier from the army of the French 
Republic, in 1793, after having^ gained some 
splendid victories with it, in a few moments 
he chanted, almost extempore, the follow- 
ing verses to the tune of " Robin Adair :"-' 

You're welcome to despots, Dumou- 
rier; [rier; 
You're welcome to despots, Dumou- 
How does Dampiere* do ? 
Ay, and Beurnonvillef too ? 
Wliy did they not come along with 
you, Dumourier? 

I will fight France v/ith you, Dumou- 

rier; [rier; 

I will fight France with you, Dumou- 

I will fight France with you, 

I will take my chance with you; 

By my soul I'll dance a dance withyou^ 

Dumourier. 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier; 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier; 
Then let us fight about. 
Till Freedom's spark is out. 

Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt. Da 
mourier. 



5 Ill-tempered, bleared dwarf. ♦ Offered 
* Farm. ' Dowry. 

* One of Dumourier's generals, 
t An emissary of the Convention's. 



SONGS. 



253 



THE LAST TIME 1 CAME O'ER 
THE MOOii. 

In this song the poet is supposed to have 
given expression to certain feelings of illicit 
love which it is known he entertained for 
the beautiful and fascinating Mrs. Riddel 
of Woodley Park. It is but just to remem- 
ber, however, and charitable to believe, 
that the poet, with an eye to artistic effect, 
may have purposely heightened his colours 
in order to increase the general effect of his 
picture. 

The last time I came o'er the moor, 

And left Maria's dwelling, 
Wliat throes, what tortures passing 
cure, 

Were in my bosom swelling: 
Condemned to see my rival's reign, 

While I in secret languish; 
To feel a fire in every vein, 

Yet dare not speak my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretch, despairing, I 

Fain, fain my crime would cover: 
The unweeting groan, the bursting 
sigh, 

Betray the guilty lover. 
i know my doom must be despair, 

Thou wilt nor canst relieve me; 
But, O Maria, hear my prayer. 

For pity's sake, forgive me ! 

The music of thy tongue I heard. 

Nor wist while it enslaved me; 
I saw thine eyes; yet nothing fear'd, 

Till fears no more had saved me. 
The unwary sailor thus aghast 

The wheeling torrent viewing, 
In circling horrors yields at last 

In overwhelming ruin ! 



BLITHE HAE I BEEN. 

Tune — " Liggeram Cosh." 

Blithe hae I been on yon hill. 

As the lambs before me; 
Careless ilka thought and free. 

As the breeze liew o'er me. 
Now nae langer sport and play, 

Mirth or sang can please me; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy. 

Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy is the task, 
^ Hopeless love declaring; 



Trembling, I dew nocht but glower,^ 
Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 

if she winna ease the thraws"^ 
In my bosom swelling; 

Underneath the graiis-green sod. 
Soon maun be my dwelling. 



LOGAN BRAES. 

Tune—" Logan Water." 

The poet, in a letter to Thomson, enclosingf 
this song, says, regarding its origin :— 
" Have you ever, my dear sir, felt your 
bosom ready to burst with indignation on 
reading of those mighty villains who divide 
kingdom against kingdom, desolate prov- 
inces, and lay nations waste, out of the 
wantonness of ambition, or often from still 
more ignoble passions ? In a mood of this 
kind to-day, I recollected the air of "■ Logan 
Water,' and it occurred to me that its quer- 
ulous melody probably had its origin from 
the plaintive indignation of some swelling, 
suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides 
of some public destroyer ; and overwhelmed 
with private distress, the consequence of a 
country's ruin. If I have done anything at 
all like justice to my feelings, the following 
song, composed in three-quarters of an 
hour's meditation in my elbow-chair, ought 
to have some merit." The two last lines of 
the first stanza the poet took from a very 
pretty song to the same air, written by Mr. 
John Mayne, author of a poem entitled, 
^' The Siller Gun." 

Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 
That day I was my Willie's bride ! 
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run. 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy fiowery banks appear 
Like drumlie^ Winter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his f aes. 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes 1 

Again the merry month o' May 
Has made our hills and valleys gay; 
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers. 
The bees hum round the breathing 

flowers: 
Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye. 
And evening's tears are tears of joy: 
My soul delightless, a' surveys, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn 

bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush; 



1 Dare nought but stare. ' Throes. 
1 Clouded aad rainy. 



354 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile: 
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer. 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Oh, wae upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ? 
But soon may peace bring happy days 
And Willie hame to Logan braes ! 



THERE WAS A LASS, AND SHE 
WAS FAIR. 

Tune—" Bonny Jean." 

• I have just finished the following ballad," 
says the poet to Thomson, " and as I do 
think it is in my best style, I send it to 
you." 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen. 

When a' the fairest maids were met, 
The fairest maid was bonny Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's 
wark. 

And aye sang sae merrilie: 
The blithest bird upon the bush 

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lint white's nest: 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 
And love will break the soundest 
rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad, 
The flower and pride of a' the glen: 

And he had owsen, sheep and kye. 
And wanton naigies' nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste,^ 
He danced wi' Jeanie on the down; 
lang ere witless Jeanie wist. 
fer heart was tint,^ her peace was 
stown.* 

As in the bosom o' the stream. 
The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en; 

» Horses. « Fair. ' Lost. * Stolen. 



So trembling, pure, was tender love 
Within the breast o' bonny Jean. 

And now she works her 'mammie'ii 
wark. 

And aye she sighs wi' care and paiu 
Yet wist na what her ail might be. 

Or what wad make her weel again. 

But did na Jeanie's heart loup light 
And did na joy blink in her ee. 

As Robie tauld a tale o' love 
Ae e'enin on the lily lea ? 

The sun was sinking in the west, 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest. 
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love:- 

" O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear; 

Oh, canst thou think to fancy me ? 
Or wilt thou Ijeave thy mammie's cot, 

And learn to tent^ the farms wi' me ' 

" At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge^ 
Or naething else to trouble thee; 

But stray amang the heather-bells. 
And tent the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na: 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent; 

And love was aye between them twa. 



PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

Tune—" Robin Adair." 

While larks with little wing 

Fann'd the pure air. 
Tasting the breathing spring. 

Forth I did fare; 
Gay the sun's golden eye 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless song 

Glad did I share: 
While yon wild flowers among. 

Chance led me there: 
Sweet to the opening day 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 

6 Mind. 



SONGS. 



255 



Down in a shady walk 
Doves cooing were: 

I raark'd the cruel hawk 
Caught in a snare: 

So kind may Fortune be. 

Such make his destiny ! 

He who would injure thee, 
Phillisthe fair. 



HAD I A CAVR 

Tune—" Robin Adair." 
Mr. Alexander Cunningham, a writer to tht^ 
Signet in Edinburgh, and a warm friend of 
the poet's, had wooed and, as he thought, 
won, a young lady of great beauty and ac- 
complishments ; but another lover having 
presented himself, with weightier claims to 
her regard than poor Cunningham pos- 
sessed, 

" The fickle, faithless queen, 
Took the carl, and left her Johnnie ;" 
and appears to have cast him off with as 
little ceremony as she would a piece of 
faded frippery. The poet, in the following 
lines, has endeavoured to express the feel- 
ings of his friend on the occasion . — 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant 
shore, [dashing roar; 

Where the winds howl to the waves' 
There would I weep my woes, 
There seek my last repose. 
Till grief my eyes should 
close. 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou de- 
clare [as air! 
All thy fond plighted vows fleeting 
To thy new lover hie. 
Laugh o'er thy perjury. 
Then in thy bosom try 
What peace is there I 



BY ALLAN STREAM I CHANCED 
TO ROVE. 

Tune—" Allan Water." 

In a letter to Thomson, dated August, 1793, 
enclosing this song, the poet says :— " I 
walked out yesterday evening with a vol- 
ume of the Museum in my hand, when, 
turning up ' Allan Water,' as the words ap- 
peared to me rather unworthy ot so fine an 
air, I sat and raved under the shade of an 
old thorn, till I wrote one to suit the meas- 
y/t^, I qaay be wrong, but I think it not in 



my worst style. Bravo ! say I ; it is a good 
song. Autumn is my propitious season. 1 
make more verses in it than all the year 
else." 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove, 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi; 
The winds were whispering through 
the grove. 

The yellow corn was waving ready: 
I listen'd to a lover's sang, , 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures] 
many; 
Aad aye the wild wood echoes rang — 

Oh, dearly do I love thee, Annie I 

Oh, happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie;* 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour. 

The place and time I met my dearie 1 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinking, said, "I'm thine for 
ever !" 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest. 

The sacred vow, — we ne'er should 



The haunt o' Spring's the primrose 
brae, [low! 

The Simmer joys the flocks to fol- 
How cheery, through her shortening 
day, 
Is Autumn in her weeds o* yellow f 
But can they melt the glowing heart. 
Or chain the soul in speechless 
pleasure, [dart. 

Or through each nerve the rapture 
Like meeting her, our bosom's treas- 
ure? 



OH, WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME 

TO YOU, MY LAD. 

Tune—" Whistle, and I'll come to you, my 
lad." 

" The old air of ' Whistle, and I'll come to you, 
my Lad,' " says the poet to Thomson, " I 
admire very much, and yesterday I set the 
following verses to it :"— 

Oh, whistle and I'll come to you. my 
lad, [lad: 

Oh, whistle and I'll come to you, my 
Though father and mither and a' sliouid 
gae mad, [lad. 

Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you, my 

— — ■ ■« 

» Fri?ht5om«, 



256 



BURNS' WORKS. 



But warily tent' when you come to 
court me, [a-jee; 

And come na unless the back yetf^ be 

Syne up the back stile, and let naebody 
see, 

And come as ye were na comin' to me. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye 
meet me, [na a flie; 

Gang by me as though that ye cared 

But steal me a blink o' your bonny 
black ee, 

tet look as ye were na looking at me. 

iye vow and protest that ye care na 
forme, [a wee; 

» Vnd whiles ye may lightly^ my Doauty 

But court na anither, though jokin' ye 
be, [me. 

For fear that she wile your fancy frae 



ADOWN WINDING NITH. 
Tune—" The Mucking o' Geordie's Byre." 

Adown winding Nith did I wander, 
To mark the sweet flowers as they 
spring; 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 

Awa' wi' your belles and your beau- 
ties, 

They never wi' her can compare: 
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, 

Has met wi' the qUeen o' the fair. 

The daisy amused my fond fancy. 
So artless, so simple, so wild; 

i'hou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 
For she is Simplicity's child. 

The rosebud's the blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tisprest: 

How fair and how pure is the lily. 
But fairer and purer her breast ! 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 

Her breath is the breath o' the wood- 
bine. 
Its dew-drop o* diamond her eye. 



Her voice is the song of the morning. 

That wakes through the greei 

spreading grove, [tains 

When Phoebus peeps over the mouu| 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 

But beauty how frail and how fleetingi 
The bloom of a fine summer's dayl 

While worth in the mind o' my Phill 
Will flourish without a decay. 



COME, LET ME TAKE THEE 

■--- . , Air—" Cauld Kail." 

Come, let me take thee to my breastj 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld's wealth and grandeur* 
And do I hear my Jeanie own 

That equal transports move her ? 
I ask for dearest life alone. 

That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms. 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll seek nae raair o' heaven to share 

Than sic a moment's pleasure: 
And by thy een, sae bonny blue, 

I swear I'm thine forever! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never I 



* Carefully heed. ' Gate. ' Disparage, 



DAINTY DAVIE. 

This is an improved version of a song whicB 
the poet wrote some years before for tlj 
Museum, and which will be found at p. 222. 
The old song which furnished the air is said 
to have been composed on a somewhat 
indelicate incident that occurred in 
the life of the Rev. David Williamson,! 
during the times of the Persecution in Scot^i 
land. This worthy, it is affirmed, aftei 
having married seven wives, died ministei 
of St. Cuthbert's, Edinburgh. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers. 
To deck her gay green-spreading bow 

ers; 
And now comes in ray happy hours 

To wander wi' my Davie. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe. 
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie; 

There I'll spend the day wi' you. 
My aia dear dainty Dftvlo. 



SONGS. 



291 



The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A- wandering wi' my Davie. 

When purple morning starts the hare, 
To steal upon her early fare. 
Then through the dews I will repair. 
To meet my faithfu' Davie. 

When day, expiring in the west, 
Tlie curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I lo'e best. 
And that's my ain dear Davie. 



BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY 

AT BANNOCKBURN. 

Tune—" Hey, tuttie taitie." 

"There is a tradition," says the poet, in a 
letter to Thomson, enclosing this glorious 
ode, " that the old air, ' Hey, tuttie taitie,' 
was Robert Bruce's march at the battle of 
Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary 
wanderings, has warmed me to a pitch of 
enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and in- 
dependence which I have thrown into a 
kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that 
one might suppose to be the gallant Scot's 
address to his heroic followers on that event- 
ful morning." This ode, says Professor 
Wilson— the grandest out of the Bible— is 
sublime ! 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has often led; 
Welcome to your gory bed. 
Or to Victory! 

Kow's the day, and now's the hour. 
See the front o' battle lour; 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Chains and slavery! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn and flee! 

Wha, for Scotland's king and law. 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw; 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
Let him follow me! 

By Oppression's woes and pains! 
By your sons in servile chains! 
. We will drain our dearest veins, 
^^Ht the^ shall be fre«I 



Lay the proud usurpers low! 
Tyrants fall in every foe! 
Liberty's in every blowj^ 
Let us do or die! 



THOU HAST LEFT ME EVEk 

Tune — " Fee him, father." 

The poet, in sending these verses to Thomson. 
says : — " I do not give them for any merit 
they have. I composed them about the 
' back o' midnight,' and by the leeside of a 
bowl of punch, which had overset every 
mortal in company exctep he Muse." 

Thou hast left me ever, J5miiel 

Thou hast left me ever; 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie. 

Thou hast left me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death 

Only should us sever; 
Now thou'st left thy lass for ay©-— 

I maun see the never, Jamie, 
I'll see the never I 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie! 
Thou hast me forsaken; 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie! 
Thou hast me forsaken. 

Thou canst love anither jo. 
While my heart is breaking: 

Soon my weary een I'll close- 
Never mair to waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken! 



FAIR JENNY. 

Tune — " Saw ye my father." 

Where are the joys I have met in tho 
morning. 
That danced to the lark's early songV 
Where is the peace that awaited my 
wandering, 
At evening the wild woods among \ 

No more a- winding the course of yon 

river, [fair. 

And marking sweet flowerets so 

No more I trace the light footsteps ol{ 

pleasure, 

But sorrow and sad sighing care. 

Is it that Summer's forsaken our val- 
leys, 
And grim, surly Winter is near T 



238 



BURNS' WOEKR 



No, no ! the bees liumming round the 
gay roses 
Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to dis- 
cover, [known ; 
Yet long, long too well have I 
All that has caused this wreck in my 
bosom 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

I'ime cannot aid me, my griefs are im- 
mortal, 
Nor hope dare a comfort bestow: 
Come then, enamour'd and fond of my 
anguish, ^ • 
Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 



DELUDED SWAIN, THE 

PLEASURE. 
Tune—" The Collier's Bonny Lassie." 
Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle fair can give thee 
Is but a fairy treasure — 
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

The billows on the ocean, 
The breezes idly roaming, 

The clouds uncertain motion — 
They are but types of woman. 

Oh ! art thou not ashamed 

To doat upon a feature ? 
If man thou wouldst be named, 

Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow; 

Good claret set before thee: 
Hold on till thou art mellow. 

And then to bed in glory. 



MY SPOUSE, NANCY 

Tune—" My Jo, Janet." 

** Husband, husband, cease your strife, 

Nor longer idly rave, sir; 
Though I am your wedded wife. 

Yet I am not your slave, sir." 

** One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Is it man, or woman, say, 

M/ spouse, Nauc^V" 



" If 'tis still the lordly word. 

Service and obedience; 
I'll desert my sovereign lord. 

And so, good-by allegiance 1" 

" Sad will I be so, bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

*' My poor heart then break it mu«t, j 

My last hour I'm near it; 
When you lay me in the dust. 

Think, think how you will bear it '" 

**I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Strength to bear it will be given. 

My spouse, Nancy." 

** Well, sir, from the silent dead. 

Still I'll try to daunt you; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt you." 

** I'll wed another, like my deaar 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Then all hell will fly for fear. 

My spouse, Nancy." 



OH, WERE MY LOVE YON LILAO 
FAIR. 

Tune—" Hughie Graham." 

The first two stanzas only of this song are tf 
Burns ; the Oi%;r two are old. 

Oh, were my love yon lilac fair, 
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring; 

And I a bird to shelter there. 
When wearied on my little wing; 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn. 
By autumn wild, and winter rude I 

But I wad sing, on wanton wing. 
When youthfu' May its bloom 
renew d. 

Oh, gin my love were yon red rose. 
That grows upon the castle wa*. 

And I mysel a drap o' dew. 
Into her bonny breast to fa' 1 

Oh ! there, beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night; 

Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest. 
Till fley'd^ awa' by Plicebus' light I 



I Frightened. 



g0M& 



!S5d 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVER- 
NESS. 
Tune—'' The Lass of Inverness." 
The lovely lass of Iverness 

Nae joy nor pleasure can slie see; 
For e'en and morn slie cries, alas ! 

And aye tlie saut tear blin's her ee: 
Drumossie Moor — Drumossie day — 

A waefu' day it was to me ! 
?or there I lost my father dear. 

My father dear, and brethren three. 

Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, 

Their graves are growing green to 
see; 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's ee ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be; 
For mony a heart thou hast made sair 

That ne'er did wraug to thine or thee. 



A RED, RED ROSE. 

Tune—" Graham's Strathspey." 
Oh, my luve's like a red, red rose, 

That's newly sprung in June: 
Oh, my luve's like the melodie 

That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonny lass. 

So deep in luve am I; 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
And the rocks melt wi'the sun: 
I will luve thee still my dear, 
I While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve! 

And fare thee weel a while ! 
And I will come again, my luve, 

Though it were ten thousand mile. 



A VISION. 

The following lines were written amid the 
ruins of Lincluden Abbey, a favourite haunt 
of the poet's. He contributed a version 
somewhat different to the Scot's Musical 
Museum : — 

A-S I stood by yon roofless tower. 
Where the wa' - flower scents the 
dewy aii^ 



Where the howlet^ mourns in her ivy 
bower, 
And tells the midnight moon her 
care; 

The winds were laid, the air was still. 
The stars they shot along the sky; 

The fox was howling on the hill. 
And the distant-echoing glens reply. 

The stream adown its hazelly path. 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's. 

Hastening to join the weeping Nith, 
Whose distant roaring swells and 
fa's. 

The cauld blue North was streaming 
forth 

Her lights, wi' hissin', eerie din: 
Athort the lift they start and shift. 

Like Fortune's favours, tint'^ as win. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes. 
And by the moonbeam, shook ta 
see 

A stern and stalwart gliaist arise, 
Attired as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane. 
His daring look had daunted me; 

And on his bonnet graved was plain. 
The sacred posy — " Liberty!" 

And f rae his harp sic strains did flow. 
Might roused the slumbering dead to 
hear; 

But, oh! it was a tale of woe. 
As ever met a Briton's ear! 

He sang wi' joy the former day. 

He, weeping, wail'd his latter times; 

But what he said it was nae play, — 
I winna venture't in my rhymes. 



OUT OVER THE FORTH. 

Tune—" Charlie Gordon's Welcome Hame.** 

Out over the Forth I look to the north. 

But what is the north and its High, 

lands to me ? [breast. 

The south nor the east gie ease to my 

The far foreign land, or the wild- 

rolling sea. 



iQwl. 



«Losu 



m 



BURNS' WORKS. 



But I look to the west, when I gae to 

rest, [slumbers may be; 

That happy my dreams and my 

For far in the west lives he I lo'e best. 

The lad that is dear to my baby and 

me. 



JEANIE'S BOSOM. 

Tune — " Louis, what reck I by thee ?' 

Louis, what reck I by thee. 
Or Geordie on his ocean ? 

Dyvor, ^ beggar loons to me — 
I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 

Let her crown my love her law. 
And in her breast enthrone me,* 

King and nations — swith, awa'! 
Keif -randies,- 1 disown ye I 



FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. 

Tune — " For the Sake of Somebody." 
My heart is sair — I dare na tell — 
My heart is sair for Somebody; 
.1 could wake a winter night 
For the sake o' Somebody. 
Oh-hon! for Somebody! 
Oh-hey! for Somebody! 
I could range the world around, 
For the sake o' Somebody ! 

Ye Powers that siiiile on virtuous love, 

Oh, sweetly smile on Somebody! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free, 
And send me safe my Somebody. 
•Oh-hon! for Somebody! 
Oh-hey! for Somebody! 
I wad do — what wad I not ? 
For the sake o' Somebody! 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE. 

Air—" The Suior's Dochter.' 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul. 

That's the love I bear thee! 

I swear and vow that only thou 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

1 Bankrupt. < Thieving beggdis. 



Only thou, I swear and vow. 
Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me; 
Or, if thou wilt na be my ain. 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 
If it winua, canna be. 
Thou, for thine may choose me. 
Let me, lassie, quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'est me. 
Lassie, let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



LOVELY POLLY STEWART. 

Tune — " Ye're welcome, Charlie Stewart.'* 

O Lovely Polly Stewart ! 

O charming Polly Stewart ! [MaJ 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms iia 

That's half so fair as thou art. 
.The flower it blav»'s, it fades and fa'?, 

And art can ne'er renew it; 
But worth and truth eternal youth 

Will gie to Polly Stewart. 

May he whose arms shall fauld tby 
charms 

Possess a leal and true heart; 
To him l>e given to ken the heaven 

He grasps in Polly Stewart 1 
lovely Polly Stewart ! 

charming Polly Stewart ! [May 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in 

That's half so sweet as thou art. 



TO MARY. 

Tune—" At Setting Day." 

Could aught of song declare my pains. 

Could artful numbers move thee, 
The Muse should tell, in labour d 
strains, 

O Mary, how I love thee ! 
They who but feign a wounded heart 

May teach the lyre to languish; 
But what avails the pride of art. 

When wastes the soul with anguish! 

Then let the sudden bursting sigh 
The heart -felt pang discover; 

And in tlif Iceen, yet tender eye. 
Oh, read th' imploring lovei; 



SONGS. 



2Ct 



For well I know thy gentle mind 
Disdains art's gay disguising; 

Beyond wliat fancy e'er refined, 
The voice of nature prizing. 



WAE IS MY HEART. 

Tune—" Wae is my heart." 
Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my 

ee; 
iiang, laug, joy's been a stranger to me: 
jForsaken and friendless, my burden I 

bear, [sounds in my ear. 

^d the sweet voice of pity ne'er 

Love, thou hast pleasures, and deep 
hae 1 loved, [I proved; 

Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae 

But this bruised heart that now bleeds 
in my breast, [at rest. 

I can feel by its throbbings will soon be 

Oh, if I were, where happy I hae been, 
Down by yon stream and yon bonny 

castle-green; [on me. 

For there he is wandering, and musing 
Wlia wad soon dry the tear frae his 

Phillis' ee. 



HERE'S TO THY HEALTH, MY 
BONNY LASS. 

Tune—" Laggan Burn." 
Here's to thy health, my bonny lass, 

Guid night and joy be wi' thee; 
I'll come nae mair to thy bower-door. 

To tell thee that I lo'e thee. 

Oh, dinna think, my pretty pink, 

But I can liv^e without thee: 

1 1 vow and swear 1 dinna care. 

How lang ye look about ye. 

1 hou'rt aye sae free informing me 

Thou hast nae mind to marry; 
Ml be as free informing thee 

Nae time hae I to tarry. 
% ken thy friends try ilka means 

Frae wedlock to delay thee; 
Depending on some higher chance — 

But Fortune may betray thee. 

I ken they scorn my low estate, 
But that does never grieve me; 

But I'm as free as any he, 
Sma' siller will relieve me. 



I'll count my health my greatest wealtl^ 

Sae lang as I'll enjoy it: 
I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want. 

As lang's I get employment. 

But far-off fowls hae feathers fair. 

And aye until ye try them ; [care, 
Though they seem fair, still have » 

They may prove waur than I am. 
But -at twal at night, when the mooa 
shines bright. 

My dear, I'll come and see thee; 
For the man that lo'es his mistress 
weel, 

Nae travel makes Mm weary. 



ANNA, THY CHARMS. 

Tune—" Bonny Mary." 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire. 

And waste my soul with care; 
But ah ! how bootless to admire. 

When fated to despair ? 
Yet in thy presence, lovely fair. 

To hope may be forgiven; 
For sure 'twere impious to despair. 

So much in sight of heaven. 



MY LADY'S GOWN, THERE'S 
GAIRS UPON'T. 

Tune—" Gregg's Pipes." 

My lady's gown, there's gairs^ upon't, 
And gowden flowers sae rare upon'tj 
But Jenny's jimps^ and jirkinet,* 
My lord thinks meikle mair upon't. 

My lord a-hunting he is gane. 

But hounds or hawks wi'himarenane; 

By Colin's cottage lies his game. 

If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 

My lady's white, my lady's red. 
And kith and kin o' Cassillis' blude; 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid 
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. 

Out o'er yon muir, out o'er yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks through the heathei 

pass, 
There wons auld Colin's bonny lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 



* A triangular piece of cloth inserted at the 
bottom of a robe. ^ A kind of stays. * Boaic* 



!I62 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Bae sweetly move her gentle limbs. 
Like music-nates o' lovers' hymns: 
The diamond dew in her een sae blue. 
Where laughing love sae wanton 
swims. 

My lady's dink,* my lady's drest. 
The flower and fancy o' the west; 
But the lassie that a man lo'es best, 
Oh, that's the lass to mak him blest. 



JOCKEY'S TA'EN THE PARTING 

KISS. 
Tune—" Bonny Lassie, tak a Man." 
Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss. 

O'er the mountains he is gane; 
And with him is a' my bliss, 

Nought but griefs with m© remain. 
Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 

Plashy sleets and beating rain I 
Spare my luve, thou feathery sna.w, 

Drifting o'er the frozen plain ! 

When the shades of evening creep 

O'er the day's fair gladsome ee, 
Sound and safely may he sleep. 

Sweetly blithe his waukening be ! 
He will think on her he loves. 

Fondly he'll repeat her name; 
For where'er he distant roves. 

Jockey's heart is still at hame. 



OH, 



LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, 

LASS. 
Tune—" Cordwainers' March." 
Oh, lay thy loof ^ in mine, lass, 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass; 
And swear on thy white hand, lass, 
That thou wilt be my ain, 

A slave to love's unbounded sway, 
He aft has wrought me meikle wae; 
But now he is my deadly fae. 
Unless thou be my ain. 

There's mony a lass has broke my rest, 
That for a blink^ I liae lo'ed best; 
But thou art queen within my breast. 
Forever to remain. 



* Neat, trim. 
» Palm. 2 Short space. 



Oh, lay thy loof in mine, lass. 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass; 
And swear on thy white hand, laas, 
That thou wilt be my ain. 



OH, 



MALLY'S MEEK, 
SWEET. 



MALLY'S 



As I was walking up the street, 
A barefit maid I chanced to meet 

But oh, the road was very hard 
For that fair maiden's tender feet 

Oh, Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 
Mally's modest and discreet, 

Mally's rare, Mally's fair, 
Mally's every way complete. 

It were mair meet that those fine feet 
Were weel laced up in silken shoon, 

And 'twere more fit that she should sit 
Within yon chariot gilt aboon. 

Her yellow hair, beyond compare. 
Comes trinkling 'down her «wan-lika 
neck; 
And her two eyes, like stars in skies. 
Would keep a sinking ship fr&a 
wreck. 



THE BANKS OF CREB. 

Tune—" The Banks of Cree." • 

Lady Elizabeth Heron having composed a« 
air entitled " The Banks of Cree," in re^ 
membrance of a beautiful and romantic 
stream of that name, " I have written " 
says the poet, " the following^ song to it, a» 
her ladyship is a particular friend of mine.*-' 

Here is the glen, and here the bower, 
All underneath the birchen shade; 

The village-bell has told the hour — 
Oh, what can stay m j lovely maid 'i 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call; 

'Tis not the balmy-breathing gale, 
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall. 

The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear! 

So calls the woodlark in the grore. 
His little faithful mate to cheer— 

At once 'tis music, and 'tis lovtt. 



SONGS. 



29» 



And art tliou come ? and art thou true? 

Oh, welcome, dear, to love and me! 
And let us all our vows renew 

Along the tlowery banks of Cree. 



CN THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

Tune—" O'er the hills and far away." 
How can my poor heart be glad. 
When absent from my sailor lad ? 
How can I the thought forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ? 
Let me wander, let me rove, 
Still my heart is with my love: 
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, 
Are with him that's far away. 

On the seas and far away. 
On stormy seas and far away; 
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by 

day. 
Are aye with him that's far away. 

When in summer noon I faint. 
As weary flocks around me pant. 
Haply in the scorching sun 
My sailor's thundering at his gun: 
Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy I 
Fate, do with me what you may — 
Spare but him that's far awayl 

At the starless midnight hour, [power. 
When winter rules with boundless 
As the storms the forests tear. 
And thunders rend the howling air. 
Listening to the doubling roar. 
Surging on the rocky shore. 
All I can — I weep and pray. 
For his weal that's far away. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend. 

And bid wild War his ravage end, 

Man with brother man to meet. 

And as a brother kindly greet : [gales 

Then may Heaven with prosperous 

Fill my sailor's welcome sails. 

To my arms their charge convey — 

My dear lad that's far away. 



CA' THE YOWES. 

This is an improved version, which the poet 
prepared for his friend Thomson, of a song 
already given at p. 229. 



Ca' the yowes to the knowes 
Ca' them whare the heather gro\^s, 
Ca' them whare the bumie rowe:-*. 
My bonny dearie ! 

Hark the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Cluden's woods amang t 
Then a faulding let us gang. 
My bonny dearie. 

We'll gae down by Cluden side, ^ 
Through the hazels spreading widfl^ 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide. 
To the moon sae clearly. 

Yonder Cluden's silent towers. 
Where at moonshine midnight hoiLT% 
O'er the dewy bending flowers. 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Noclit of ill may come thee near, 
My bonny dearie. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart; 
I can die — but canna part — 
My bonny dearie ! 



SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BESl 
OF A' 

Tune—" Onagh's "Wv-n'-rfall." 
Sae flaxen were her rinplet>. 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o' bonny >lue. 
Her smiling sae wiling. 

Wad make a wretch forget hiii^ vot^. 
What pleasure, what treasure. 

Unto these rosy lips to grow 1 
Such was my Chloris' bonny face. 

When first her bonny face I saw; 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm. 

She says she lo'es me best of a*. 

Like harmony her motion; 

Her pretty ankle is a spy. 
Betraying fair proportion. 

Wad mak a saint forget the skj. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and gracefu* airj 
Hk feature — auld Nature 

Declared XhaA 3he could do ns^e maoir 



«64 



BURNS' WORKS. 



.1 



Hers are the willing chains o' love, 
By conquering beauty's sovereign 
law; 

And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 
She says she lo'es me best o' a'. 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon; 
Gie me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon; 
Fair beaming and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang; 
While falling, recalling, [sang; 

The amourous thrush concludes his 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

And say thou lo'est me best of a'? 



THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE 

TO HIS MISTRESS. 

Tune—" Deil tak the wars." 

" Having been out in the country dining with 
a friend," (Mr. Lorimer of Kemmis Hall,) 
says the poet in a letter to Thomson, " I 
met with a lady, (Mrs. Whelpdale— ' Chlo- 
ris,') and as usual got into song, and on re- 
turning home composed the following :— 

Sleep'st thou or wakest thou, fairest 
creature ? 
Rosy morn now lifts his eye, 

Numbering ilka bud which nature 
Waters wi' the tears o' joy: 
Now through the leafy woods. 
And by the reeking floods, [stray. 

Wild nature's tenants, freely, gladly. 
The lintwhite in his bower 
Chants o'er the breathing flower;* 
The laverock to the sky 
Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 

While the sun and thou arise to bless 
the day. 

Phoebus, gilding the brow o' morning, 
Banishes ilk darksome shade. 



* Variation. — 

" Now to the streaming fountain, 
Or up the healthy mountain, 
The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly- 
wanton stray ; 
In twining hazel bowers 
His lay the linnet pours : 
Xb« laverQfk to the sky,'' &«;. 



Nature gladdening and adorning; 
Such to me my lovely maid. 
When absent f rae my fair. 
The murky shades o' care 

With startless gloom o'ercast my sul 
len sky; 
But when, in beauty's light, 
She meets my ravish'd sight. 
When through my very heart 
Her beaming glories dart — [joy.f 

'Tis then I wake to life, to light, ana 



CHLORIS. 

Regarding the following lines, the poet says: 
— " Havmg been on a visit the other day to 
my fair Chloris— that is the poetic name of 
the lovely goddess of my inspiration — she 
suggested an idea, which, on my return 
home, I wrought into the following 
song :"— 

My Chloris, mark how green the 
groves, 

The primrose banks how fair; 
The balmy gales awake the flowers. 

And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The laverock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings; 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween. 

To shepherds as to Idngs. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilf u' string 

In lordly lighted ha': 
The shepherd stops his simple reed. 

Blithe, in the birken shaw. ^ 

The princely revel may survey 
Our rustic dance wi' scorn; 

But are their hearts as light as ours. 
Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 

The shepherd in the flowery glen, 
In shepherd's phrase will woo; 

The courtier tells a finer tale — 
But is his heart as true ? 



1 Birch-wood. 

t Var.- 

" When frae my Chloris parted, 
Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted, 
Then night's gloomy shades, cloudy, darl( 
o'ercast my sky ; 
But when she charms my sight, 
In pride of beauty's light : 
When through mjr very heart 
Her beaming glories dart, 
'Tis then, 'tis then J wak9 to life anfl 



jey. 



I 



SONGS. 



These wild- wood iiowers I've pud, 
to deck 

That spotless breast o' thine; 
Che courtier's gems may witness love — 

But 'tisna love like mine. 



TO CHLORIS 

r 
The following lines, says the poet, were 
" written on the blank leaf of a copy of the 
last edition of my poems, and presented to 
the lady whom, with the most ardent senti- 
ments of real friendship, I have so often 
sung under the name of Chloris :" — 

Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, 
fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Kor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralising Muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and 
charms. 

Must bid the world adieu, [amis,) 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant 

To join the friendly few; 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 
Chill came the tempests lower; 

(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 
Did nip a fairer flower;) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no 
more. 

Still much is left behind; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store — 

The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self -approving glow 

On concious honour's part; 
And — dearest gift of Heaven below — 

Thine friendship's truest heart. 

Tlie joys refined of sense and taste, 

With every Muse to rove: 
And doubly were the poet blest, 

These joys could he improve. 



AH, CHLORIS! 

Tune—" Major Graham." 
Ah, Chloris ! since it mayna be 

That thou of love wilt hear; 
If from the lover thou maun flee. 

Yet let the friend be dear. 

A-lthough I love my Chloris mair 
Than ever tongue could tell; 



My passion I will ne'er declare, 
I'll say, I wish thee well. 

Though a' my daily care thou art, 
And a' my nightly dream, 

I'll hide the struggle in my heart. 
And say it is esteem. 



SAW YE MY PHELY? 

Tune—" When she cam ben she bobbit" 
Oh, saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
Oh, saw ye my dear, my Phely? 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' 4 
new love. 

She winna come hame to her Willy. 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely ! 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely? 

She lets thee to wit that she has thee 

forgot. 

And for ever disowns thee, her Willy. 

Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely !> 

Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 

As light as the air, and fause as thou's 

fair— [Willy. 

Thou's broken the heart o' thy 



HOW LONG AND DREARY IS 
THE NIGHT ! 

To a Gaelic Air. 
How long and dreary is the night. 

When I am f rae my dearie ! 
I sleepless lie f rae e'en to morn. 

Though I were ne'er sae weary. 
I sleepless lie frae e'en to mom. 

Though I were ne'er sae weary. 

When I think on the happy days 
I spent wi' you, my dearie. 

And now what lands between us lie. 
How can I be but eerie ?^ 

And now what lands between us lie, 
How can I be but eerie? 

How slow ye move, ye "heavy hourSr 
^s ye were wae and weary ! 

It wasna sae ye glinted' by 
When I was wi' my dearie. 

It wasna sae ye glinted by 
When I was wi' my dearie. 



I Lonely. 



Glided. 



m 



BURNS' WORKS. 



IMPROVED VERSION. 

Tune — "Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." 
flow long and dreary is the niglit, 

When I am frae my dearie ! 
I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 

Though I were ne'er sae weary. 

For oh ! her lanely nights are lang; 

And oh, her dreams are eerie; 
And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, 

That's absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lightsome days 
I spent wi' thee, my dearie; 

And now what seas between us roar — 
How can I be but eerie ? 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ! 

The joyless day how dreary ! 
It wasna sae ye glinted by, 

Where I was wi' my dearie. 



LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COM- 
PLAIN. 

Tune—" Duncan Gray." 

** I have been at ' Duncan Gray,' says the poet 
to Thomson, " to dress it into English ; but 
all I can do is deplorably stupid. For in- 
stance :" — 

Let not woman e'er complain 

Of inconstancy in love; 
Let not woman e'er complain 

Fickle man is apt to rove: 
Look abroad through nature's range, 
Nature's might)" law is change; 
Ladies, would it not be strange, 

Man should then a monster prove ? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow. 
Sun and moon but set to rise. 

Round and round the seasons go: 
vVhy then ask of silly man 
To oppose greatNature's plan ? 
We'll be constant while we can — 

You can be no more, you know. 



THE CHARMING MONTH OF MAY. 

the poet having given the following English 
dress to an old Scotch ditty, says, in trans- 
mitting it to Thomson :— ' You may think 
meanly of this ; but if you saw the bombast 
of the original you would be surprised that 
I tiad made so much of it.' V 



It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh and 

gay, 

One morning by the break of day, 
The youthful, charming Chloe; 
From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose. 
And o'er th^ flowery mead she goes, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

Lovely was she by the dawn. 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe j 

Tripping o'er the pearly lawn. 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The feather'd people you might see 
Perch'd all around, on every tree. 
In notes of sweetest melody. 

They hail the charming Chloe; 
Till painting gay the eastern skies. 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes 

Of youthful, charming Chloe. 



LASSIE Wr THE LINT-WHITK 
LOCKS. 

Tune—" Rothemurche's Rant. 

" This piece," says the poet, " has at least the 
merit of being a regular pastoral : the ver- 
nal morn, the summer noon, the autumnal 
evening, and the winter night, are regular* 
ly rounded." 

Now nature deeds* the flowery lea. 
And a' is young and sweet like thee; 
Oh, wilt thou share its joy wi' me, 
And say thou'lt be my dearie, O ? 

Lassie wi' the lint- white locks, 
Bonny lassie, artless lassie. 

Wilt thou wi' me tent^ the flocks? 
Wilt thou be my dearie, ? 

And when the welcome simmer- 

shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower. 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bowef ! 
At sultry noon, my dearie, O. 

When Cynthia lights wi' silver ray. 

The weary shearer's^ hameward way: ; 

Through yellow waving fields we'Uj 

stray, j 

And talk o' love, my dearie. O. 



Clothes. 2 Tend. ^ Reapers 



SONGS. 



267 



And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. 



FAREWELL. THOU STREAM. 

Tune—" Nancy's to the greenwood gane," 

This song appears to be an improved version 
of the one entitled, "• The last time I came 
o'er the moor," (p. 253. ) with the substitu- 
tion of the name Eliza for that of Maria. 
This change probably arose from the poet's 
quarrel with Mrs. Riddel having rendered 
her name distasteful to him. See the intro- 
duction to the song entitled, " Caost thou 
leave me thus, my Katy?" in the following 
page. 

Farewell, thou stream that winding 
flows 
Around Eliza's dwelling! 

Memory! spare the cruel throes 
Within my bosom swelling: 

(yondemn'd to drag a hopeless chain. 
And yet in secret languish; 

To feel a fire in every vein. 
Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretcn, unseen, un- 
known, 
I fain my griefs wouiu cover; 
The bursting sigh, th' unweeting 
groan. 
Betray the hapless lover. 

1 know thou doom'st me to despair. 

Nor wilt, nor canst, relieve me; 
But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer — 
For pity's sake, forgive me! 

The music of thy voice I heard^ 

"Nor wist while it enslaved me, 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

'Till fears no more had .saved me: 
The unwary sailor thus aghast. 

The wheeling torrent viewing; 
Mid circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming ruin. 



OH PHILLY, HAPPY BE THAT 
DAY. 

Tune—" The Sow's Tail. 
HE. 

Philly, happy be that day. 

When roving through the gather'd hay. 



My youthfu' heart was stown away, 
And by thy charms, my Philly. 

SHE. 

Willy, aye I bless the grove 
Where I first own'd my maiden Iov*j. 
Whilst thou didst pledge the Pow^* 
above 
To be my ain dear Willy. 

HE. 

As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear. 
So ilka day to me mair dear. 
And charming is my Philly. 

SHE. 

As on the brier the budding rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows. 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willy. 

HE. 

The milder sun and bluer sky 
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy. 
Were ne'er so welcome to my eye 
As is a sight o' Philly. 

SHE. 

The little swallow's wanton wing. 
Though wafting o'er the flower/ 

spring. 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring 
As meeting o' my Willy. 

HE. 

The bee that through the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower. 
Compared wi' my delight is poor. 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 

SHE. 

The woodbine in the dewy weet 
When evening shades in silence meet. 
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willy. 



Let Fortune's wheel at random rin. 
And fools may tyne, and knaves ma/ 

win; 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 

SHE. 

What's a' the joys that gowd can gi«^ 
I carena wealth a single flie; 
The lad I love's the lad for me, 
An^ that's my ain dear Willy, 



BURNS' WORKS. 



CONTENTED WI' LITTLE. 

Tune—" L'lmps o' Pudding." 

This song is entitled to more than ordinary 
attention, as it appears the poet meant it 
for a personal sketch : for, in a letter to 
Thomson, thanking him for the present of a 
picture of " The Cotter's Saturday Night," 
by David Allan, the leading painter of the 
day, he says :— " Ten thousand thanks for 
your elegant present. ... 1 have some 
thoughts of suggesting to you to prefix a 
vignette of me to my song, ' Contented wi' 
little, and cantie w^i' mair, in order that the 
portrait of my face, and the picture of my 
tnind^ may go down the stream of time to- 
gether." 

Contented wi' little, and cantie' wi' 
mair, [care, 

Whene'er I forgather^ wi' sorrow and 

1 gie them a skelp,^ as they're creeping 
alang, [Scottish sang. 

Wi' a cog o' guid swats/ and an auld 

I whiles claw the elbow o' troublesome 
thought; [f aught; 

But man is a sodger, and life is a 

My mirth and guid humour are coin in 
my pouch. 

And my freedom's my lairdship nae 
monarch dare touch. 

A towmond^ o' trouble, should that 
be my fa', [it a': 

A night o' guid-fellowship sowthers^ 

When at the blithe end o' our journey 
at last, [lie has past ? 

Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road 

Blind Cliance, let her snapper and 
stoyte'' on her way; [jade gae;^ 

Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the 

Come ease or come travail ; come pleas- 
ure or pain; [welcome again !" 

My warst ward is — "Welcome and 



CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, 
MY KATY? 

Tune—" Roy's Wife." 

This scng, which the poet says he composed 
in two or three turns across his little room, 
was meant as a representation of the kindly 
feelings which he now once more began to 
entertain for his former beautiful and fas- 
cinating friend, Mrs. Riddel of Woodley 

* Happy. 2 Meet. » Whack. < Flagon of 
nle. 5 Twelvemonth. • Solders. '' Stagger 
jind 9'jUmW«. • Slut go. 



Park. She replied to his song in a similar 
strain of poetic licence.* The poet, it will 
be observed, with the usual freedom jof the 
sons of Apollo, addresses her as a mistress, 
and in that character she replies to him. 

Is this thy plighted, fond reward, 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? 

Is this thy faithful swain's regard — 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy \ 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? 



* The following are the pieces which Mrs 
Riddel sent to the poet in reply to his song ;— 

Tune—" Roy's Wife.' 

" Tell me that thou yet art true. 

And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven ; 
And when this heart proves fause to thee, 
Yon sun shall cease its course m heaven. 

" Stay, my Willie— yet believe me, 
Stay, my Willie — yet believe me. 
For, ah ! thou know'st na every pang [me. 
Wad wring my bosom, shouldst thou leave 

" But to think I was betray'd, [sunder ! 

That falsehood e'er our loves should 
To take the floweret to my breast, 
And find the guilefu' serpent under. 

" Could I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive,' 

Celestial pleasures might I choose 'em, 
I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres 
That heaven I'd find within thy bosom. 
" Stay, my Willie— yet believe me. 
Stay, my Willie— yet believe me. 
For ah ! thou know'st na every pang 
Wad wring my bosom, should'st thoq 
leave me." 



" To thee, loved Nith, thy gladsome plains, 

Where late with careless thought 1 ranged, 
Though prest with care, and sunk in woe. 

To thee I bring a heart unchanged. 
I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes. 

Though Memory there my bosom tear. 
For there he roved that broke my heart, 

Yet to that heart, ah, still how dear ! 

" And now your banks and bonny braes 

But waken sad remembrance' smart ; 
The very shades I held most dear 

Now strike fresh anguish to my heart ; 
Deserted bower ! where are they now — 

Ah ! where the garlands that I wove 
With faithful care each morn to deck 

The altars of ungrateful love ? 

" The flowers of spring, how gay they bloom'4 

When last with him I wander'd here ! 
The flowers of spring are pass'd away 

For wintry horrors, dark and drear. 
Yon osier'd stream, by whose lone banks 

My songs have lull'd him oft to rest. 
Is now in icy fetters lock'd — 

Cold as my false love's frozen breast." 



HONGS. 



,2G& 



Well thou knowest my aching 

heart — [pity ! 

And canst thou leave me thus for 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 
Thou mayst find those will love thee, 

dear — 
[ But not a love like mine, Katy ! 



WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER- 
DOOR? 

Tune— '"^Lass, an I come near thee." 

Wha is that at my bower-door? 

Oh, wha is it but Findlay ? 
Then gae yere gate, ' ye'se na be here ! — 

Indeed, maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak ye sae like a thief ? 

Oh, come and see, quo' Findlay; 
Before the morn ye'll work mischief — 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay., 

Gif* I rise and let you in, — 

Let me in, quo' Findlay, 
Ye'll keep mo waukin wi' your din — 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
In my bower if ye should stay, — 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay; 
I fear ye'll bide^ till break o' day — 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay, 

Here this night if ye remain, — 

I'll remain, quo' Findlay; 
I dread ye'll ken the gate again; — 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
What may pass within this bower, — 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay; 
Ye maun conceal till your last hour; — 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 



THE CARDIN' O'T. 

Tune—" Salt-fish and Dumplings." 
I coft' a stane o' haslock^ woo. 

To mak a coat to Johnny o't; 
Fojr Johnny is my only jo, 

I lo'e him best of ony yet. 

The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't; 



The warpin' o't, the winnin 



o't; 



1 Way. 2 If. 3 Remain. 

•Bought. « Hause-lock— the wool from the 
throat— the finest of the flock. 



When ilka ell cost me a groat, 
The tailor staw" the liuin' o't. 

For though his locks be lyart gray, 
And though his brow be held abooo^ 

Yet 1 hae seen him on a day 
The pride of a' the parishen. 



THE PIPER. 

A FRAGMENT. 

There came a piper out o' Fife. 

I watna what they ca'd him; 
He play'd our cousin Kate a spring 

When fient a body bade him; 
And aye the mair he hotch'd and blew, 

The mair that she forbade him. 



JENNY M'CRAW. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Jenny M'Craw, she has ta'en to the 

heather, [her thither; 

Say, was it the Covenant carried 

Jenny M'Craw to the mountains is 

gane, [a' she has ta'en; 

Their leagues and their covenants 

My head and my heart now, quo' she, 

are at rest, [best. 

And as for the lave, let the deil do his 



THE LAST BRAW BRIDAL. 

a FRAGMENT. 

The last braw bridal that I was ait, 

'Twas on a Hallowmas day. 
And there was routh' o' drink and fun, 

And mickle mirth and play, [sang. 
The bells they rang, and the carlines* 

And the dames danced in the ha'; 
The bride went to bed wi' the silly 
bridegroom, 

In the midst o' her kimmers^ a'. 



LINES ON A MERRY 
PLOUGHMAN. 

As I was a wandering ae morning in 

spring. [sweetly to sing; 

I heard a merry ploughman sa« 



1 Plenty. 



3 Stole. 
2 Old women. 



3 Women. 



m 



BTTRrTS' WORKS. 



And as he was siugin' tliae words he 

did say. 
There's nae life like the ploughman's 

in the month o* sweet May. 

The laverock in the morning she'll rise 
frae her nest, [her breast; 

And mount in the air wi' the dew on 

And wi' the merry ploughman she'll 
whistle and sing; [back again. 

Aild at night she'll return to her nest 



THE WINTER OF LIFE. 

Tune—'' Gil Morice." 
BxJT lately seen in gladsome green. 

The woods rejoiced the day; 
Through gentle showers the laughing 
flowers 

In double pride were gay: 
But now our joys are fled 

On winter blasts awa' ! 
Yet maiden May in rich array, 

Again shall bring then a'. 

But my white pow,* nae kindly thowe,'' 

Shall melt the snaws of age; 
My trunk of eild,^ but^ buss or bield'^ 

Sinks in Time's wintry rage. 
Oh ! age has weary days, 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime. 

Why comest thou not again ! 



I'LL AYE CA' IN BY YON TOWN. 

Tune—" I'll gae nae mair to yon town." 
Pll aye ca' in by yon town. 

And by yon garden green, again: 
I'll aye ca' in by yon town. 

And see my bonny Jean again. 

There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail 
guess. 

What brings me back the gate again; 
But she, my fairest, faith fu' lass, 

And stowlins^ we sail meet again. 

She'll wander by the aiken tree. 

When trystin'-time draws near again; 

And when her lovely form I see. 
Oh, haith, she's doubly dear again ! 



I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 

And by yon garden green, again; 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 
And see my bonny Jean again. 



1 Head. 2 Thaw. ' Aged trunk. * Without. 
•Shelter. 

» Secretly. 



THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA 

Tune—" Banks of Banna." 

" A Dumfries maiden," says Cunningharaii . . 
" with a light foot and a merry eye, was the j; 
heorine of this clever song. Burns thought 
so well of it himself that he recommended 
it to Thomson; but the latter— aware, per- 
haps, of the free character of her of the 
gowden locks, excluded it, though pressed 
to publish it by the poet. Irritated, per- 
haps, at Thomson's refusal, he wrote the 
additional stanza, by way of postscript, in 
defiance of his colder-blooded critic." 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw na; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness. 

Rejoicing o'er his manna, 
Was naething to my hinny bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye monarchs tak the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savannah ! 
Gie me within my straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll despise imperial charms. 

An empress or sultana, 
While dying raptures in her arms 

I give and take with Anna ! 

Awa',thou flaunting god o' day ! 

Awa', thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray, 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage. Night ! 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a'; 
And bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna 1 



POSTSCRIPT. 

The kirk and state may join, and tell 

To do such things I maunna: 
The kirk and state may gae to hell. 

And I'll gae to my Anna. 
She is the sunshine o' my ee, — 

To livebut* her I canna; 
Had I on earth but wishes three. 

The first should be my Anna. 



1 Without. 



^om^. 



^ 



HAD I THE WYTE. 

Tune—" Had I the wyte ?— she bade me." 
Had I the wyte,' had I the wyte. 

Had I the wyte ? — she bade me; 
She watch'd me by the hie-gate side. 

And up the loan she sliaw'd me; 
And when I wadna venture in, 

A coward loon she ca'd me; 
Had kirk and state been in the gate, 

I lighted when she bade me. 

Sae craftilie she took me ben,^ 

And bade me makenae clatter; [man 
"For our ramgunshoch, glum^ guid- 

Is o'er ayont the water;" 
Whae'er shall say I wanted grace, 

When I did kiss and dawf* her, 
Let him be planted in my place. 

Syne say I was a fautor. 

Could I for shame, could I for shame, 

Could I for shame refused her ? 
And wadna manhood been to blame 

Had I unkindly used her ? 
He claw'd her wi' the ripplin-kame, 

And blae and bluidy bruised her; 
When sic a husband was f rae hame, 

What wife but wad excused her ? 

I dighted" aye her een sae blue, 

And bann'd the cruel randy;® 
And weel I wat her willing mou' 

Was e'en like sugar candy. 
At gloamin'-shot it was, I trow, 

I lighted on the Monday ; 
But I cam through the Tysday's dew, 

To wanton Willie's brandy. 



CALEDONIA. 

w Tune — '^ Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

f There was once a day — but old Time 

then was young — [her line. 

That brave Caledonia, the chief of 

From some of your northern deities 

sprung, [donia's divine ?) 

(W'lo knows not that brave Cale- 

From Tweed to the Orcades was her 

domain, [she would: 

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what 

Her heavenly relations there fixed her 

reign. [warrant it good. 

And pledged her their godheads to 

^ * Blame. * In. * F.ugged, soarse. * Fondle. 
• Wiped. eScoW, 



A lambkin m peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred the heroine 

grew: [swore, 

Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly 

"Who e'er shall provoke thee th' 

encounter bhall rue!" 

With tillage or pasture at times sho 

would sport, [rustling corn; 

To feed her fair flocks by her green 

But chiefly the woods were her favouP' 

ite resort, [and the horn. 

Her darling amusement the hounds 

Long quiet she reign'd; till thither- 
ward steers [strand, 
A flight of bold eagles from Adria's 
Repeated, successive, for many long 
years, 
They darken'd the air, and they 
plunder'd the land: 
Their pounces were murder, and terror 
their cry, [beside; 
They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world 
She took to her hills, and her arrows 
let fly— [died. 
The daring invaders they fled or they 

The fell harpy-raven took wing from 

the north. 

The scourge of the seas, and the 

dread of the shore! 

The wild Scandinavian boar issued 

forth [in gore; 

To wanton in carnage, and wallow 

O'er countries and kingdoms their fury 

prevail'd, [could repel; 

No arts could appease them, no arms 

But brave Caledonia in vain they as- 

sail'd, [cartie tell. 

As Largs well can witness, and Lon- 

The Cameleon - savage disturb'd her 

repose, [strife; 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and 

Provoked beyond bearing, at last sho 

arose, [and his life: 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes 

The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguined the 

Tweed's silver flood: [lance. 

But, taught by the bright Caleaonian 

He learn'd to fear in his own native 

wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconqtier'd, 

and free, [shall run: 

Her bright course of giory foroir«| 



m 



BURNS' WORKS. 



For brave Caledonia immortal must be; 
I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as 
the sun; 

Rectangle-triangle, the figure vre'll 
choose, 
The upright is Chance, and old 
Time is the base; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse : 
Then, ergo, she'll match them, and 
match them always. 



THE FAREWELL. 
TuHE— " It was a' for our rightfu' king." 

It was a' for our rightfu' king 
We left fair Scotland's strand; 

It was a' for our rightfu' king 
We e'er saw Irish land, my dear. 
We e'er saw Irisli land. 

Now a' is done that men can do, 
And a' is done in vain; 

My love and native land farewell, 
For I maun cross the main, my dear. 
For I mauu cross the main. 

He turn'd him right and round about. 

Upon the Irish shore: 
And gae his bridle-reins a shake, 

With adieu for evermore, my dear. 

With adieu for evermore. 

The sodger f rae the wars returns. 

The sailor frae the main; 
But I hae parted frae my love, 

Never to meet again, my dear. 

Never to meet again. 

Wlien day is gane, and night is come, 
And a' folk bound to sleep; 

I think on him that's far awa', [dear. 
The lee-lang night, and weep, my 
The loe-lang night, and weep. 



OH, STEER HER UP. 

Tune — " Oh, steer her up and haud her 
gaun." 

Oh, steer' her up and haud her gaun- 
Her mithers at the mill, jo; 

And gin she winna tak a man, 
E'en let her tak her will, jo- 

1 Stir. 



First shore* her wi' a kindly kiss, 

And ca' anither gill, jo; 
And gin she tak the thing amiss, 

E'en let her fiyte=* her fill, jo. 

Oh, steer her up, and be na blate,* 

And gin she tak it ill, jo. 
Then lea'e the lassie till her fate. 

And time na langer spill, jo: 
Ne'er break your heart for ae rebute. 

But think upon it still, jo; 
That gin the lassie winna do't, 

Ye'll fin' anither will, jo. 



BONNY PEG-A-RAMSAY. 

Tune—" Cauld is the e'enin' blast.' 
CAUiiD is the e'enin' blast 

O' Boreas o'er the pool; 
And dawin' it is dreary 

When birks are bare at Yule. 

Oh, cauld blaws the e'enin' blast 
When bitter bites the frost. 

And in the mirk and dreary drift 
The hills and glens are lost. 

Ne'er sae murky blew the night 
That drifted o'er the hill, 

But bonny Peg-a-Ramsay 
Gat grist to her mill. 



HEE BALOU I 

Tune—" The Highland Balou," 

Concerning this song, Cromek says: — "The 
time when the moss-troopers and cattle - 
drivers on the Borders began their nightly 
depredations was the first Michaelmas 
moon. Cattle-stealing formerly was a mere 
foraging expedition ; and it has been re- 
marked that many of the best families in 
the north can trace their descent from the 
daring sons of the mountains. The produce 
(by way of dowry to a laird's daughter) of a 
Michaelmas moon is proverbial ; and by the 
aid of Lochiel's lanthorn (the moon) these 
exploits were the most desirable things im- 
aginable. In the ' Hee Balou' we see one 
of those heroes in the cradle." 

Hee balou !• my sweet wee Donald, 
Picture o' the great Clanronald; 
Brawlie kens our wanton chief 
Wha got my young Highland thief. 



2 Try. 3 Scold. * Bashful. ^ Rebuke. 
^ A cn>'*Ie-lullaby phrase used by nursw, 



soNaa 



m 



Leeze me on thy bonny craigie, 
An thou live, thou'lt steal a naigie: 
Travel the country through and 

through. 
And bring hame a Carlisle cow. 

Through the Lawlands, o'er the Bor- 
der, 
Weel, my baby, may thou furder:^ 
Herry3 the louns o' the laigh countrie, 
Syne to the Highlands, hame to me. 



HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN WATER. 

Tune—" The Job of Tourneywork." 

Although my back be at the wa', 
And though he be the fautor; 

Although my back be at the wa^ 
Yet, here's his health in water ! 

Oh ! wae gae by his wanton sides, 

Sae brawlie's he could flatter; 
Till for his sake I'm slighted sair. 

And dree^ the kintra clatter. ^ 
But though my back be at the wa'. 

And though he be the fautor; 
But though my back be at the wa', 

Yet, here's his health in water ! 



AMANG THE TREES, WHERE 
HUMMING BEES. 
Tune—" The king of France, he rode a race." 
Amang the trees, where humming 
bees [O, 

At buds and flowers were hinging, 
Auld Caledon drew out her drone. 
And to her pipe was singing, O; 
'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or 
reels, 
She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, O, 
When there cam a yell o' foreign 
squeels. 
That dang her tapsalteerie,^ O. 

Their capon craws, and queer ha ha's, 
They made our lugs^ grow eerie,^ 0; 

The hungry bike'' did scrape and pike,^ 
Till we were wae and weary, 0; 



2 Prosper. s Plunder. 

1 Bear. « Country talk. 

3 Ears. 3 Weary. * Band. 



1 Topsy-turvey 
• ?ick. 



But a royal ghaist,® wha ance was cased 
A prisoner aughteen year awa'. 

He fired a fiddler in the north 
That dang them tapsalteerie, O. 



CASSILLIS' BANKS. 

Tune — Unknown. 
Now bank and brae are claithed in 
green, 

And scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring; 
By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks, when e'ening fa's. 

There, wi' my Mary, let me flee. 
There catch her ilka glance of love. 

The bonny blink o' Mary's ee! 

The chield wha boasts o' warld's waltli 

Is aften laird o' meikle care; 
But Mary, she is a' mine ain — 

Ah! Fortune canna gie me mair? 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, 

Wi' her, the lassie dear to me. 
And catch her ilka glance o' love. 

The bonny blink o' Mary's eel 



BANNOCKS 0' BARLET. 

Tune—" The Killogie.'* 
Bannocks o' bear-meal. 

Bannocks o' barley; 
Here's to the Highlandman's 

Bannocks o' barley ! 
Wha in abrulzie,^ 

Will first cry a parley ? 
Never the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley! 

Bannocks o' bear-meal. 

Bannocks o' barley; 
Here's to the Highlandman's 

Bannocks o' barley! 
Wha, in his wae-days, 

Were loyal to Charlie ? 
Wha but the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley ? 



SAE FAR AWA'. 

Tune—" Dalkeith Maiden Bridge." 

Oh, sad and heavy should I part. 
But for her sake sae far awa'; 



• Ghost. 



BroiU 



m 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Unknowing wliat my way may thwart, 
My native land, sae far awa'. 

Thou that of a' things Maker art, 
That form'd this lair sae far awa', 

Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start 
At this, my way, sae far awa'. 

How true is love to pure desert, 

So love to her sae far awa' r 
And nocht can heal my bosom's smart 

While, oh ! she is sae far awa'. 
Nane other love, nane other dart, 

I feel but hers, sae far awa'; 
But fairer never touch'd a heart 

Than hers, the fair, sae far awa'. 



HER FLOWING LOCKS. 

Tune— Unknown. 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing; 
How sweet unto that breast to cling, 
And round that neck entwine her ! 

Her lips are roses wat wi' dew. 
Oh what a feast her bonny mou'! 
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 
A crimson still diviner. 



THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. 

Tune—" If thou'lt play me fair play." 

The bonniest lad that e'er I saw. 

Bonny laddie, Highland laddie. 
Wore aj)laid, and was fu' braw. 

Bonny Highland laddie. 
On his head a bonnet blue. 

Bonny laddie, Highland laddie; 
His royal heart was firm and true, 

Bonny Highland laddie. 

Trumpets sound, and cannons roar. 

Bonny lassie. Lowland lassie; 
And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, 

Bonny Lowland lassie. 
Glory, honour, now invite. 

Bonny lasnie, Lowland lassie. 
For freedom and my king to fight. 

Bonny Lowland lassie. 

The sun a backward course shall take, 
Bonnie laddio, Highland laddie. 

Ere aught thy manly courage shake, 
Sonny Highland laddie. 



Go ! for yoursel procure renown. 
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie; 

And for your lawful king his crown. 
Bonny Highland Laddie. 



THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED 
TO ME. 

Tune—" The lass that made the bed to me." 

The poet, in his notes to the Museum, says 
regarding this song : — " ' The bonny lass 
that made the bed to me' was composed on 
an amour of Charles II., when skulking in 
the north about Aberdeen, in the time of 
the usurpation. He formed une petiie 
affaire with a daughter of the house c-f 
Port Letham, who was the lass that made 
the bed to him!" 

When Jai7\ar' wind was blawing 
cauld. 

As to the north I took my way, 
The mirksome' night did me enfauld, 

I knew na where to lodge till day. 

By my good luck a maid I met. 
Just in the middle o' my care; 

And kindly she did me invite 
To walk into a chamber fair. 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid. 
And thank'd her for her courtesie; 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid. 
And bade her make a bed for me. 

She made the bedbaith large and wide, 
Wi' twa white hands she spread it 
down. 
She put the cup to her rosy lips, 
And drank, ' ' Young man, now sleep 
ye soun'." 

She snatch'd the candle in her hand. 
And frae my chamber went wi' speed j 

But I call'd her quickly back again. 
To lay some mair below my head. 

A cod she laid below my head, 
And served me wi' due respect; 

And, to salute her wi' a kiss, 
I put my arms about her neck. 

" Haud off your hands, young man, ' 
she says. 

" And dinna sae uncivil be: 
Gif ye hae ony love for me. 

Oh, wrangna my virginitie !*' 



i Darksome. 



SONGS. 



275 



Ker hair was like the links o' gowd, 
Her teeth were like the ivorie; 

Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 
The lass that made the bed to me. 

Her bosom was the driven snaw, 
Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see; 

Her limbs the polish'd marble stane, 
The lass that made the bed to me. 

I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 
And aye she wist na what to say; 

I laid her between me and the wa' — 
The lassie thought na lang till day. 

Upon the morrow, when we rose, 
I thank'd her for her courtesie; 

Butayesheblush'd, and ayeshesigh'd, 
And said, "Alas! ye've ruin'dme." 

I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her 
syne. 
While the tear stood twinkling in 
her ee; 
I said, '• My lassie, dinna cry, 

For ye aye shall makthe bed tome." 

She took her mither's Holland sheets. 
And made them a' in sarks to me: 

Blithe and merry may she be, 
The lass that made the bed to me. 

•The bonny lass made the bed to me, 
The braw lass made the bed to me; 

£'11 ne'er forget, till the day I die. 
The lass that made the bed to me ! 



THE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAN. 

Tune—" Jacky Latin." 

drAT ye me, oh, gat ye me. 

Oh, gat ye me wi' naething ? 
Eock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, 

A mickle quarter basin. 
Bye attour, ' my gutcher'^ has 

A heigh house and a laigh ane, 
A' forbye my bonny sel. 

The toss of Ecclefechan. 

Oh, haud your tongue now, Luckie 
Laing, 

Oh, haud your tongue and jauner;^ 
I held the gate till you I met, 

Syne 1 began to wander; 



* Besides. ' Grandsire. » Comolaining. 



I tint* my whistle and my sang, 
I tint my peace and pleasure; 

But your green graff* now, Luckie 
Laing, 
Wad airt" me to my treasure. 



THE COOPER O' CUDDIE. 

Tune—" Bob at the Bowster." 

The cooper o' Cuddie cam here awa'; 

He ca'd the girrs^ out owre us a' — 
And our guidwife has gotten a ca* 

That anger'd the silly guidman, O. 

We'll hide the cooper behind the 

door. 
Behind the door, behind the door, 
We'll hide the cooper behind the 

door, [O. 

And cover him under a mawn,"^ 

He sought them out, he sought them 

in, 
Wi'. Deil hae her! and, Deil hae him ! 
But the body he was sae doited^ and 

blin, 
He wistna where he was gaun, O. 

They cooper'd at e'en, they cooper'd at 

morn, 
Till our guidman has gotten the scorn. 
On ilka brow she's planted a horn, 
And swears that there they shall 

Stan', O. 



THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LA. 
MENT. 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Without a penny in my purse 

To buy a meal to me. 

It wasna sae in the Highland hills, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the country wide 

Sae happy was as me. 

For then I had a score o' kye, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Feeding on yon hills so high. 

And giving milk to me. 



* Lost. 



Hoops 



6 Grave. 
2 Basket. 



• Direcli 
3 Stupid. 



876 



BURNS* W0IIK3. 






And there I had threescore o' yowes* 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Skipping on yon bonny knowes. 

And casting woo' to me. 

I was the happiest of a' the clan, 

Sair, sair may I repine; 
For Donald was the bra west man, 

And Donald he was mine. 

Till Charlie Stuart cam at last, 

Sae far to set us free; 
My Donald's arm was wanted then 

For Scotland and for me. 

Their waef u' fate what need I tell 1 
Right to the wrang did yield: 

My Donald and his country fell 
Upon Culloden field. 

Och-on, O Donald, oh ! 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the warld wide 

Sae wretched now as me. 



THERE WAS A BONNY LASS. 

There was a bonny lass. 

And a bonny, bonny lass. 
And she lo'ed her bonny laddie dear; 

Till war's loud alarms 

Tore her laddie frae her arms, 
Wi' mony a sigh and a tear. 

Over sea, over shore, 

Where the cannons loudly roar. 
He still was a stranger to fear; 

And noclit could him quail. 

Or his bosom assail, 
But the bonny lass he lo'ed sae dear. 



OH 



WAT YE WHAT MY MINNIE 
DID? 



Oh, wat ye what my minnie did, 

My minnie did, my minnie did; 
Oh, wat ye what my minnie did, 

On Tysday 'teen to me, jo ? 
She laid me in a saft bed, 

A saft bed, a saft bed, 
She laid me in a saft bed. 

And bade guid e'en to me, jo. 

And wat ye what the parson did. 
The parson did, the parson did, 



And wat ye what the parson did, 

A* for a penny fee, jo? 
He loosed on me a lang man, 

A mickle man, a Strang man. 
He loosed on me a lang man, 

That might hae worried me, ja 

And I was but a young thing, 

A young thing, a young thing. 
And I was but a young thing, 

Wi' nane to pity me, jo. 
I ^at the kirk was in the wyte,* 

In the wyte, in the wyte. 
To pit a young thing in a fright. 

And loose a man on me, jo. 



OH, GUID ALE COMES. 

CHORUS. 

Of, <^iid ale comes, and guid ale goen 
Guid ale gars^ me sell my hose. 
Sell my hose, and pawn my shooir, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 

I had sax owscn in a pleugb. 
They drew a' weeleneugh; 
I sell'd them a' just ane by ane; 
Guid ale keeps m^ heart aboon; 

Guid ale hands me bare and busy. 
Gars me moop'^ wi' the servant hizzie/ 
Stand i' the stool when I hae done; 
Guid ale keeps my heart ^LM>on. 



COMING THROUGH THE BRABS 
O' CUPAR. 

Donald Brodie met a lass 
Coming o'er the braes o' Cupa^ 

Donald, wi' his Highland hand, 
Rifled ilka charm about her. 

CHORUS. 

Coming o'er the braes o' Cupar, 
Coming o'er the braes o' Cupar, 
Highland Donald met a lass. 
And row'd his Highland plai^ 
about her. 



1 Makes. 



J Blame. 
' Romp. 



sWcndk 



SONGS. 



271 



Weel I wat she was a quean, 

Wad made a body's mouth to water; 
Our Mess John, wi' his auld gray pow,' 

His haly lips" wad licket at her. 

Off she started in a fright, [bicker ;- 
And through the braes as she could 

But souple Donald quicker flew, 
And in his arms he lock'd her sicker. ^ 



GUID E'EN TO YOU, KIMMER. 

Tune—*' We're a' noddin." 

GuiD e'en to you, kimmer,i 

And how do ye do? 
Hiccup, quo' kimmer, 

The better that I'm fou. [din. 

We're a* noddin, nid, nid, nod- 
We're a' noddin at our house at 
hame. 

Kate sits 1' the neuk,* 

Suppin' hen broo;^ 
Deil tak Kate, 

An she be na noddin tool 

How's a' wi' you, kimmer. 

And how do ye fare ? 
A pint o' the best o't. 

And twa pints mair. 

How's a' wi' you, kimmer. 

And how do ye thrive ? 
How mony bairns hae ye? 

Quo' kimmer, I hae fiv^ 

Are they a' Johnny's ? 

Eh! at weel, na: 
Twa o' them were gotten \ 

When Johnny was awa*. 

Cats like milk, 

And dogs like broo, 
Lads like lasses weel. 
And lasses lads too. 
We're a' noddin, 
We're a' noddin at our house at 
hame. 



[din, 
nid, nid, nod- 



» Head. a Run. 

' Laas. * Comer. 



'■ Sure. 



2 Broth. 



MEG 0' THE MILL. 

Tune—" Jackie Hume's Lament." 

This second version of " Meg- o' the Mill," (pw 
252.) prepared by the poet for the Museum^ 
was founded on an old ditty, which he al« 
tered and amended. 

Oil, ken ye what Meg o' the Mill ha» 
gotten, [gotten ? 

And ken ye what Meg o' the Mill haa 

A braw new naig' wi' the tail o' a rot- 
tan, [gotten 1 

And that's what Meg o' the Mill haa 

Oh, ken ye what Meg o' the Mill lo'ea 
dearly ? [dearly ? 

And ken ye what Meg o' the Mill lo'ea 

A dram o' guid strunf^ in a morning 
early, [dearly. 

And that's what Meg o' the Mill lo'es 

Oh, ken ye how Meg o' the Mill was 
married, [married? 

And ken ye how Meg o' the Mill was 

The priest he was oxter'd, the clerk he 
was carried, [married. 

And that's how Meg o' the Mill was 

Oh, ken ye how Meg o' the Mill was 
bedded, [bedded? 

And ken ye how Meg o' the Mill was 

The groom gat sae fou,^ he fell twa- 
fauld beside it, [bedded. 

And that's how Meg o' the Mill wa* 



YOUNG JAMIE PRIDE OF A' THE 
PLAIN. 

Tune—" The Carlin o' the Glen," 

Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain, 
Sae gallant and sae gay a swain; 
Through a' our lasses he did rove. 
And reign'd resistless king of love: 
But now, wi' sighs and starting tears, 
He strays among the woods and brien? 
Or in the glens and rocky caves. 
His sad complaining dowie' raves: 

* ' I wha sae late did range and rove. 
And changed with every moon my lovei, 
I little thought the time was near 
Repentance I should buy sae dear: 



A nding-horse. ^ Whisky. ^ Drunk. 
» Sadly. 



278 



BURNS' WORKS. 



The slighted maids my torments see. 
And laugh at a' the pangs I dree;^ 
While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair. 
Forbids me e'er to see her mair 1" 



COMING THROUGH THE RYE. 

Tune — " Coming through the rye." 

Coming through the rye, poor body, 
' Coming through the rye. 
She draiglet' a' her petticoatie. 
Coming through the rye. 

O Jenny's a' wat, poor body, 
Jenny's seldom dry; 

She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 
Coming through the rye. 

Gin^ a body meet a body 

Coming through the rye; 
Gin a body kiss a body — 

Need a body cry ? 

Gin a body meet a body 
Coming through the glen; 

Gin a body kiss a body — 
Need the warld ken ? 



THE CARLES OF DYSART. 

Tune—" Hey, ca' through." 

Up wi' the carles^ o' Dysart 
And the lads o' Buckhaven, 

And the kimmers'^ o' Largo, 
And the lasses o' Leven. 

Hey, ca' through, ca'^ through. 
For we hae mickle ado; 

Hey, ca' through, ca' through, 
For we hae mickle ado. 

We hae tales to tell, 

And we hae sangs to sing; 

We hae pennies to spend. 
And we hae pints to bring. 

We'll live a' our days. 
And them that come behin'. 

Let them do the like. 
And spend the gear they win. 

s Suffer. 

» Soiled, bespattered. « If. 

> Men. 8 Women. » Push. 



IS THERE, FOR HONEST 
POVERTY. 

Tune—" For a' that and a' that." 

Of the following song— one of the most strife 
ing and characteristic effusions of his Must 
— he says, evidently in a strain of affected 
depreciation : — " A great critic on songs 
says that love and wine are the exclusive 
themes for song-writing. The following is 
on neither subject, and is consequently na 
song ; but will be allowed, I think, to b'. t 
two or three pretty good prose thoughts I 
inverted into rhyme.' 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' tha.t ? 
The coward slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that I 
For a' that, and a' that; 

Our toils obscure, and a' that; 
The rank is but the guinea-stamp. 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine» 

Wear hodden gray and a' that; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their 
wine, 

A man's a man for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their tinsel show, and a' that; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that ! 

Ye see yon birkie,* ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; 
Though hundreds worship at his word. 

He's but a coof ' for a' that: 
For a' that, and a' that. 

His riband, star, and a' that; 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that ! 

A king can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith he maunna^ fa' that! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their dignities, and a' that. 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 



1 Fool. 2 " He maunna fa' that"— he must 

not try that. 

* Primarily, the word signifies a lively, 
mettlesome young fellow ; but here the poete 
meaning would be better rendered by tbt 
words— a proud, affected person. 



SONGS 



2n 



Then let us pray that come it may— 

As come it will for a' that — 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree, and a' that- 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's comin' yet for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING 
YET? 

Tune—'* Let me in this ae night." 
O LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet. 
Or art thou waking, I would wit ? 
For love has bound me hand and foot. 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

Oh, let me in this ae night. 

This ae, ae, fte night. 
For pity's sake this ae night. 

Oh, rise and let me in, jo! 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks through the driving 

sleet: 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 
And shield me frae the rain, jo. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws. 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's: 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain. jo. 

HER ANSWER. 

Oh, tellna me o' wind and rain. 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain! 
Gae back the gate ye cam again, 
I winna let ye in, jo. 

I tell you now this ae night, 

Thisae, ae, ae night; 
And ance for a', this ae night, 

I winna let you in, jo. 



blast dt mirkest hours, 
the pathless wanderer 



The snellest, 
That round 
pours, 
Is nocht to what poor she endures 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the 

mead, 
Kow trodden like the vilest weed; 



Sharpest. 



Let simple maid the lesson read. 
The weiid may be her ain. jo. 

The bird that charm'd his summel 

day 
Is now the cruel fowlei s prey; 
Let witless, trusting woman say 
How aft her fate's the same, ja 



THE HERON ELECTION BAL. 
LADS. 

BALLAD I. 

Whom will you send to London tow» 

To Parliament, and a' that ? 
Or wha in a' the country round 
The best deserves to fa' that? 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Through Galloway and a' that; 
Where is the laird or belted knight 
That best deserves to fa' that V 

Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett,* 

And wha is't never saw that ? 
Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree met. 
And has a doubt of a' that ? 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
The independent patriot. 
The honest man, and a' that. 

Though wit and worth in either sex, 

St. Mary's Isle can shaw that; 
Wi' dukes and lords let Selkirk mix. 
And weel does Selkirk fa' that. 
For a' that, and a' that! 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
The independent commoner 
Shall be the man for a' that. 

But why should we to nobles jouk?* 

And it's against the law that; 
For why, a lord may be a gouk* 
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
A lord may be a lousy loun 
W^i' ribbon, star, and a' that. 

A beardless boy comes o'er tV^ hilla 
Wi' uncle's purse and a' thdi';. 

But we'll hae ane frae 'maag eii?s«l«, 
A man we k*}n, aad a* that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 



» Gate. * Bead. 



FooU 



880 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
For we're not to be bought and 

sold 
Like naigs, and nowt/ and a' that. 

Then let us drink the Stewartry, 

Kerroughtree's laird, and a' that. 
Our representative to be, 

For weel he's worthy a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that I 
A House of Commons such as he, 
They would be blest that saw that. 



BALLAO II. 

Tune—" Fy let us a' to the bridal." 

Tv, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, 
For there will be bickering there; 

For Murray's light horse are to muster, 
And oh, how the heroes will swear ! 

And there will be Murray,' comman- 
der. 
And Gordon,^ the battle to win; 
',ike brothers they'll stand by each 
other, 
Sae knit in alliance and kin. 

And there will be black-nebbit John- 
nie,^ 

The tongue o' the trump to them a'; 
An he gets nahell for his haddin' 

The deil gets na justice ava'; 

And there will be Kempleton's birkie,^ 
A boy na sae black at the bane. 

But, as for his fine nabob fortune. 
We'll e'en let the subject alane. 

AJid there will be Wigton's new sher- 
iff,6 
Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped, 
She's gotten the heart of a Bushby, 
But, Lord ! what's become o' the 
head ? 

4 Cattle. 

* Murray of Broughton. 
^ Gordon cf Balmaghie. 

' Mr. John Bushby, a sharp-witted lawyer, 
for whom the poet had no little aversion. 

* William Bushby of Kempleton, brother 
of the above, who had made a fortune in In- 
dia, but which was popularly thought to have 
originated in some questionable transactions 
connected with the ruinous affair of the Ayr 
Bank before he went abroad. 

* Mr. Bushby Maitland, son of John, and 
jecendy appointed Sheriff of Wigtonshire. 



And there will be Cardoness,*Esquir«^ 
Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes, 

A wight that will weather damnation, 
For the devil the prey will despise. 

And there will be Kenmure,' sae gea. 
erous ! 

Whose honour is proof to the stormy 
To save them from stark reprobation. 

He lent them his name to the firm. 

But we winna mention Redcastle,^ 
The body, e'en let him escape ! 

He'd venture the gallows for siller. 
An 'twere na the cost o* the rape. 

And where is our king's lord-lieuten. 
ant, 
Sae famed for his gratefu' return ? 
The billie is getting his questions. 
To say in St. Stephen's the morn. 
* 
And there will be Douglases' doughty. 
New-christening towns 'far and 
near; 
Abjuring their democrat doings. 
By kissing the of a peer. 

And there will be lads o' the gospel, 
Muirhead,'" wha's as good as he's 
true; 
And there will be Buittle's apostle," 
Wha's mair o' the black than the 
blue. 

And there will be folk frae St. Mary's, 
A house o' great merit and note. 

The deil ane but hono*irs them high- 
ly— 
The deil ane will gie them his vote ! 

4nd there will be wealthy young 
Richard, '2 [neck; 

Dame Fortune should hing by tha 
For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing, 

His merit had won him respect. 

And there will be rich brother nabobs» 
Though nabobs, yet men of the first,** 



« David Maxwell of Cardoness. 
' Mr. Gordon of Kenmure. 
8 Mr. Lawrie of Redcastle. 
^ Messrs. Douglas of Carlinwark gave the 
name of Castle Douglas to a village which 
rose in their neighbourhood— now a populoul 
lown. 
1" Rev. Mr. Muirhead, minister of Urr. 
11 Rev, George Maxwell, minister of Buil 
tie. 
>2 Richard Oswald of Auchincruivc 
13 The Messrs. Hannay, 



SONGS. 



281 



And there will be Collieston's''* whisk- 
ers. 
And Quintin,^* o' lads not the warst. 

And there will be stamp-office John- 
nie,'^ 
Tak tent how ye purchase a dram; 
And there will be gay Cassencarrie, 
And there will be gleg Colonel 
Tarn;'' 

And there will be trusty Kerrough- 
tree,'^ 
Whase honour was ever his law, 
f the virtues were pack'd in a parcel, 
His worth might be sample for a*. 

And strong and respectf u's his backing, 
The maist o' the lairds wi' him stand, 

Nae gipsy-like nominal barons, 
Whase property's paper, but lands. 

And can we forget the auld Major, '^ 
Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys, 

Our flattery we'll keep for some ither, 
Him only it's justice to praise. 

And there will be maiden Kilkerran,^" 
And also Barkskimming's guid 
kniglit,2i 

And there will be roaring Birtwhistle,^^ 
Wha luckily roars in the right. 

And there, frae the Niddisdale border, 
Will mingle the Maxwells in droves; 

Teugh Johnnie,23 stanch Geordie,*"* 
and Walie,25 
That griens for the fishes and loaves. 

And there will be Logan M'Dowall,^^ 
Sculduddery and he will be there; 

^d also the wild Scot o' Galloway, 
Sodgering, gunpowder Blair. ■^'' 



** Mr. Copland of CoUieston. 

15 Quintin M'Adara of Craigengillan. 

*" Mr. John Syme, distributor of stamps, 
Dumfries. 

1^ Colonel Goldie of Goldielea. 

*^ Mr. Heron of Kerroughtree, the Whig 
tandidate. 

•• Major Heron, brother of the above. 

^ Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran. 

2' Sir William Miller of Barkskimming, af- 
terwards a judge, with the title of Lord Glen- 
ice. 

22 Mr. Birtwhistle of Kirkcudbright. 

" Mr. Maxwell of Terraughty. 

2* George Maxwell of Carruchan. 

" Mr. Wellwood Maxwell. 

2^ Captain M'Dowall of Logan, 

«» Mr. eiftir of Ounsky. 



Then hey the chaste interest o' Brongh- 

ton, [bring ! 

And hey for the blessings 'twill 

It may send Balmaghie to the Com 

mons. 

In Sodom 'twould make him a king; 

And hey for the sanctified Murray,^^ 
Our land wha wi' chapels has stored; 

He founder'd his horse amang harlots. 
But gied the auld naig to the Lord. 1 



JOHN BUSHBY'S LAMENTATION. 

BALLAD III. 

'TwAS in tlie seventeen hundred yeajr 

0' Christ, and ninety-five. 
That year I was the wae'st man 

0' ony man alive. 

In March, the three-and-twentieth day, 
The sun raise clear and bright; 

But oh, I was a waefu' man 
Ere to-fa' o' the night. 

Yerl Galloway lang did rule this land 

Wi' equal right and fame. 
And thereto was his kinsman join'd, 

The Murray's noble name! 

Yerl Galloway lang did rule the land. 
Made me the judge o' strife; 

But now Yerl Galloway's sceptre's 
broke. 
And eke my hangman's knife. 

'Twas by the banks o' bonny Dee, 
Beside Kirkcudbright towers 

The Stewart and the Murray there 
Did muster a' their powers. 

The Murray, on the auld gray yaud,* 

Wi' winged spurs did.ride. 
That auld gray yaud, yea, Nid'sdale 
rade. 

He staw" upon Nidside. 

And there had been the yerl himsel. 
Oh, there had been nae play; 

But Gariieff was to London gane. 
And sae the kye might stray. 



28 Mr. Murray of Broughton,whohad aban* 
doned his wife, and eloped with a lady e| 
rank. 



MarQ, 



« Stole 



282 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And there was Balmaghie, I ween. 
In the front rank he wad shine, 

But Balmaghie had better been 
Drinking Madeira wine 

Frae the Glenkens came to our aid 

A chief o' doughty deed; 
In case that worth should wanted be, 

O' Kenmure we had need. 

And there, sae grave. Squire Car- 
doness 

Look'd on till a' was done; 
Sae in the tower o' Cardoness, 

A liowlet sits at noon. 

And there led 1 the Bushbys a*; 

My gamesome Billy Will, 
And my son Maitland, wise as brave, 

My footsteps folio w'd still. 

The Douglas and the Heron's name. 
We set nought to their score: 

The Douglas and the Heron's name 
Had felt our weight before. 

But Douglases c' weight had we, 

A pair o' trusty lairds, 
For building cot-houses sae famed. 

And christening kail -yards. 

And by our banners march'd Muirhead, 

And Buittle wasna slack, 
Whose haly priesthood nane can stain. 

For wha can dye the black ? 



THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS 

Tune—" Push about the jorum." 

Burns having joined the Dumfries Volunteers 
when they were formed early in 1795, sig- 
nalised that patriotic event by the composi- 
tion of the following ballad, which after- 
wards became very popular throughout the 
district. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 

Then let the louns beware.sir; 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, sir. 
The Nith shall rin to Corsincon, 

The Criffel sink in Sol way, 
fire we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 

We'll ne'er permit a foreign foe 
Oft British ground to rally. 



Oh, let us not, like snarling curs. 

In wrangling be divided; 
Till, slap ! come in an unco loun. 

And wi' a rung' decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang oursels united; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted I 
For never, &c. 

The kettle o' the kirk and state. 

Perhaps a clout may fail in't; 
But deil a foreign tinkler loun 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our father's bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha h ad dare to spoil it ? 
By heavens ! the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it ! 

By heavens, &c. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own. 
And the wretch, his true-sworn 
brother, [throne, 

Wlia would set the mob aboon the 

May they be damn'd together ! 
Wha will not sing "God save the 
King " 
Shall hang as high's the steeple; 
But while we sing "God save the 

King," 
We'll ne'er forget the People. 

But while we sing, &c. 



OH, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON 
TOWN? 

Tune—" I'll aye ca' in by yon town." 

Now haply down yon gay green shsvr 
She wanders by yon spreading tree*, 

How blest ye flowers that round hf , 
blaw, i 

Ye catch the glances o' her ee 1 

CHORUS. 

Oh, wat ye wha's in von town. 
Ye see the e'enin' sun upon? 

The fairest dame's in you town, 
That e'enin' sun is shining on. 

How blest ye birds thut round hel 
sing, 
And welcome in the blooming year! 



» Cudgel. 



SONGS 



And doubly welcome be tlio spring. 
The season to my Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blithe on yon town, 
And on yon bonny braes of Ayr; 

But my delight in yon town, 
And dearest bliss is Lucy fair. 

! Without my love, not a' the charms 
O' Paradise could yield me joy; 

But gie me Lucy in my arms. 
And welcome Lapland's dreary sky! 

My cave wad be a lover's bower. 
Though raging winter rent the air; 

And she a lovely little flower. 

That I wad tent and shelter there. 

Oh, sweet is she in yon town 

The sinking sun's gane down upon; 

A fairer than's in yon town 

His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe. 

And suffering I am doom'd to bear, 

I careless quit aught else below. 
But spare me — spare me, Lucy, 
dear I 

For while life's dearest blood is warm 
Ae thought frae her shall "ne'er de- 
part, 

And she — as fairest is her form! 
She has the truest, kindest heart! 

Oh, wat ye wha's in yon town. 
Ye see the e'enin' sun upon! 

The fairest dame's in yon town 
That e'enin' sun is shining on. 



ADDRESS TO THE WOODLaRK. 

Tune—" Where'll bonny Ann lie :" or, 
" Loch-Eroch Side." 

Oh, stay, sweet warbling woodlark, 

stay, 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray; 
A hapless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing, fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part. 
That I may catch thy melting art; 
For surely that wad touch her heart 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 



Say, was thy little mate unkind. 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh, nocht but lovg and sorrow join'd, 
Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care, 
O' speechless grief and dark despair: 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mairJ 
Or my poor heart is broken 1 



ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 
Tune—" Aye wakin', O." 

Can I cease to care ? 

Can I cease to languish. 
While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish T 

Long, long the night. 

Heavy comes the morrow^ 

While my soul's delight 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Every hope is fled. 

Every fear is terror; 
Slumber even I dread. 

Every dream is horror. 

Hear me. Powers divine I 

Oh, in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine. 

But my Chloris spare me! 



FORLORN, MY LOVE, NO GOIS. 
FORT NEAR. 

Tune—" Let me in this ae night." 
Forlorn, my love, no comfort near. 
Far, far from thee, I wander here; 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 

Oh, wert thou, love, but near me; 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, 
And mingle sighs with mine^ 
love ! 

Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope and jovf 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I^ 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 

Cold, alter'd Friendship's cruel part. 
To poison Fortune's ruthlesas dartr— ' 



284 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Let me not break thy faithful heart. 
And say that fate is mine, love. 

But dreary though the moments fleet, 
Oh, let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 



FRAGMENT— CHLORIS. 

Tune—" Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

Why, why tell thy lover, 
Bliss he never must enjoy ! 

Why, why undeceive him, 
And give all his hopes the lie ? 

Oh why, while Fancy, raptured, slum- 
bers, 

Chloris, Cliloris all the theme ; 
Why, why wouldst thou, cruel. 

Wake thy lover from his dream ? 



MARK YONDER POMP. 
Tune—" Deil tak the Wars." 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion. 
Round the wealthy, titled bride: 

But when compared with real passion. 
Poor is all that princely pride. 
What are the showy treasures ? 
What are the noisy pleasures ? 

The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art: 
The polish'd jewel's blaze 
May draw the wondering gaze. 
And courtly grandeur bright 
The fancy may delight. [heart. 

But never, never can come near the 

But did you see my dearest Cliloris 

In simplicity's array, [is. 

Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower 
Shrinking from the gaze of day; 
Oh then, the heart alarming. 
And all resistless charming, 
In Love's delightful fetters she chains 
the willing soul ! 
Ambition would disown 
The world's imperial crown, 
Even Avarice would deny 
His worshipp'd deity, 
^d teel through every vein Love's 
raptures roll. 



OH, BONNY WAS YON ROSY 

BRIER. 

Oh, bonny was yon rosy brier, [man? 

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' 
And bonny she, and ah, how dear ! 

It shaded frae the e'enin' sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew. 
How pure amang the leaves sae 
green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow [treen. 
They witness'd in their shade yes. 

All in its rude and prickly bower. 
That crimson rose, how sweet and 
fair ! 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine; 

And I the world, nor wish, nor scom^ 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



CALEDONIA. 
Tune—" Humours of Glen." 

"The heroine of this song^," says Cunning- 
ham, '• Ayas Mrs. Bums, who so charmed 
the poet by singing it with taste and feel- 
ing, that he declared it to be one of his 
luckiest lyrics." 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let 

foreign lands reckon. 

Where bright-beaming summers 

exalt their perfume; [breckan,* 

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green 

Wi' the burn stealing under the lang 

yellow broom: 

Far dearer tome are yon humble broom 

bowers, [lowly unseen; 

Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk 

For there, lightly tripping amang the 

wild flowers, [my Jean. 

A-listening the linnet, aft wanders 

Though rich is the breeze in their gay 

sunny valleys, [wave; 

And cauld Caledonia's blast on thf 

Their sweet-scented woodlands that 

skirt the proud palace. 

What are they ? — The haunt o' tha 

tyrant and slave! 

<- 

'Fera. 



SONGS. 



281 



The slave's spicy forests, and gold- 
bubbling fountains, [dain; 
The brave Caledonian views wi' dis- 
He wanders as free as the winds of his 
mountains. 
Save Love's willing fetters — the 
chains o' his Jean. 



rWAS NA HER BONNY BLUE EE. 

Tune—" Laddie, he near me." 

rwAS na her bonny blue ee was my 

ruin; [undoing: 

Fair though she be, that was ne'er my 

'Twas the dear smile when naebody 

did mind us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown 
glance o' kindness. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide 
me! [to sever. 

But though fell Fortune should fate us 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for- 
ever. 
Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest. 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the 
dearest! [alter — 

And thou'rt the angel that never can 
Sooner the sun in his motion would 
falter. 



HOW CRUEL ARE THE 
PARENTS! 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH 
SONG. 
Tune—" John Anderson, my Jo." 
How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize. 
And to the wealthy booby 

Poor woman sacrifice! 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife — 
To shun a tyrant father's hate. 
Become a wretched wife. 

The ravening hawk pursuing. 

The trembling dove thus flies, 
To shun impelling ruin 

A while her pinion tries; 
Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat, 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet I 



LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER. 

Tune—" The Lothian Lzissie." 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the 

lang glen, [me; 

And sair wi' his love he did deave 

I said there was naething I hated lik* 

men, [lieve me. 

The deuce gae wi'm, to believe, be' 

The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me ! 

He spak o' the darts in my bonny black 

een. 

And vow'd for my love he was dying, 

I said he might die when he liked for 

Jean, Pying, 

The Lord forgie me for lying, for 

The Lord forgie me for lying I 

A weel-stocked mailen^ — himsel for 

the laird — [proffers: 

And marriage aff-hand, were his 

I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or 

cared, [waur offers. 

But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But what wad ye think ? in a fortnight 

or less — [her I 

The deil tak his taste to gae near 

He up the lang loan to my black cousin 



Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear 

her, could bear her, [her. 

Guess ye how, the jad I I could bear 

But a' the neist week, as 1 fretted wi' 
care, 
I gaed to the tryst o* Dalgarnock, 
And wlia but my fine fickle lover was 
there ! [warlock, 

I glower'd'^ as I'd seen a warlock, a 
I glower'd as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him 

a blink. 

Lest neebors might say I was saucy. 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been iii 

drink, [dear lassie. 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I spier'd^ for my cousin f u' couthy an^ 
sweet, 
Gin she had recover'd her hearin'. 
And how her new shoon fit her auld 
shachl't^ feet. 



» Farm. » Stared. ' Inqjiire* « Distorted 



BURNS' WORKS. 



But, heavens ! how he fell a swear- 
in', a swearin', [in' ! 

But, heavens ! how he fell a swear- 
He begg'd, for guidsake, 1 wad be his 
wife. 

Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow; 
Sae e'en to preserve the poor body his 
life, [to-morrow, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, 

I think I maun wed him to morrow. 



THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE. 

Tune—" This is no my ain house." 
I SEE a form, I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place; 
It wants to me the witching grace. 
The kind love that's in her ee. 

Oh, this is no my ain lassie. 
Fair though the lassie be; 

Oh, weel ken I my ain lassie. 
Kind love is in her ee. 

She's bonny, blooming, straight, and 

tall, 
And lang has had my heart in thrall; 
And aye it chamis my very saul. 
The kind love that's in her ee. 

A thief sae pawkie* is my Jean, 
To steal a blink, by a' unseen; 
But gleg- as light are lovei-s' een. 
When kind love is in the ee. 

It may escape the courtly sparks. 
It may escape the learned clerks; 
But weel the watching lover marks 
The kind love that's in her ee. 



NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE 
GROVE IN GREEN 

A SCOTTISH SONG. 

Now spring has clad the grove in green, 

And strew'dthe lea wi' flowers: 
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
Oh, why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ? 



The trout within yon wimpling bum 

Glides swift, a silver dart. 
And, safe beneath the shady thorn. 

Defies the angler's art: 
My life was ance that careless streami, 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam. 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 

The little floweret's peaceful \ot. 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wo^ 

Nae ruder visit knows. 
Was mine; till love has o'er me past. 

And blighted a' my bloom. 
And now, beneath the withering blast, 

My youth and joy consume. 

The waken'd laverock, warbling, 
springs. 

And climbs the early sky. 
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye; 
As little reckt I sorrow's power, 

Until the flowery snare 
O' witching love, in luckless hour. 

Made me the thrall o' care. 

Oh, had my fate been Greenland snows. 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagued my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
The wretch whase doom is, " Hope 
nae mair," 

What tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whase bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



Sly. 



^uick. 



THE DEAN OF FACULTY. 

A BALLAD. 
Tune—" The Dragon of Wantley." 
Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, 

That Scot to Scot did carry; 
And dire the discord Langside saw 

For beauteous, hapless Mary: 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot, 

Or were more in fury seen, sir, 
Than 'twixt Hal* and Bobf for tha 
famous job — 
Who should be Faculty's Dean, sir. 



* The Hon. wenry Erskine. 

t Robert Dundas, Esq., of Arnistoa, 



SONGS. 



281 



This Hal for genius, wit, and lore, 

Among the first was number'd; 
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store. 

Commandment tenth remember'd. 
Yet simple Bob the victory got, 

And won his heart's desire; [pot, 
Which shows that Heaven can boil the 

Though the devil in the fire. 

'Squire Hal, besides, had in this case 

Pretentions rather brassy. 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy; 
So their worships of the Faculty, 
Quite sick of merit's rudeness, 
, Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye 
see. 
To their gratis grace and goodness. 

As once on Pisgah purged was the sight 

Of a son of Circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Bob's purblind, mental vision: 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet 

Till for eloquence you hail him. 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. 

In your heretic sins may ye live and 
die. 

Ye heretic eight-and-thirty! 
But accept, ye sublime Majority, 

My congratulations hearty. 
With your Honours and a certain King, 

In your servants this is striking — 
The more incapacity they bring. 

The more they're to your liking. 



i 



HEY FOR A LASS wr A TOCHER. 

Tune—" Balinamona Ora." 

Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's 
alarms, [your arms; 

The slender bit beauty you grasp in 

Oh, gie me the lass that' has acres o' 
charms, [farms. 

Oh, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit 

Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher. 
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher; 
' Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, 
The nice yellow guineas for me. 

Your beauty's a flower in the morning 

that blows, [grows; 

An4 withers the faster the faster it 



But the rapturous charm o' the bonny 

green knowes, [white yowes. 

Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonny 

And e'en when this beauty your boaom 
has blest; [possest; 

The brightest o' beauty may cloy when 

But the sweet yellow darlings wi' 
Geordie imprest, [they're carest. 

The langer ye hae them the mair 



JESSY. 

Tune—" Here's a health to them that's 
awa'." 

The heroine of this song was Miss Jessy Lew- 
ars, a kind-hearted, amiable young crea-« 
ture. Her tender and assiduous attentions 
to the poet during his last illness, it is well 
known, greatly soothed his fretted spirit 
and eased his shattered frame. 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ! 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ! 
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond 
lovers meet. 

And soft as their parting tear — Jessy 1 

Although thou maun never be mine. 
Although even hope is denied; 

'Tis sweeter for thee despairing 

Than aught in the world beside— 



I mourn through the gay, gaudy day, 
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms; 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slum- 
ber, [Jessy I 
For then I am loekt in thy arms— 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 
I guess by the love -rolling ee; 

But why urge the tender confession. 
'Gainst Fortune's fell cruel decree! 

! 



Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ! 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear! 
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond 
lovers meet. 

And soft as their parting tear — Jessyl 



OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAUU 
BLAST. 

Tune—" The I.ass o' Livingstone." 

This fine song is another tribute of the poet's 
Mus>^ \o hi? wmisterin^ ange/, Mi5§ Jessy 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Lewars. According to the lady's statement, 
as related by Mr. Chambers, the poet hay- 
ing called upon her one morning, said, if 
she would play him any favourite air for 
which she might wish new words, he would 
endeavour to produce something that 
should please her. She accordingly sat 
down to the piano, and played once or twice 
the air of an old ditty beginning with the 
words— 

" The robin cam to the wren's nest, 
And keekit in, and keekit in ; 
Oh, weel's me on your auld pow, 
Wad ye be in, wad ye be in," &c. 

And, after a few minutes' abstraction, the 
poet produced the following beautiful 
lines :— 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea, 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee: 
Or did Misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw. 
Thy bield^ should be my bosom. 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae bleak and bare, sae bleak and 
bare. 
The desert were a paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there- 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign. 
The brightest jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 
Tune—" Buy Broom Besoms." 

A dissolution of Parliamant having taken 
place in May of this year, a fresh contest 
took place for the Stewartry ot Kirkcud- 
bright, Mr Heron being on this occasion 
opposed by the Hon. Montgomery Stewart, 
a younger son of the Earl of Galloway's, 

• And the poet, although prostrate from sick- 
ness and confined to his chamber, once more 
took up the pen in the cause of his friend 
Mr. Heron, and produced the following 
satirical ballad agamst his opponents. A 
great many years ago, a set of vagrant 
dealers called TroggerSy used to travel about 
the country districts of Scotland, disposing 
of various kinds ot wares, wHich were 
known by the general name of TroggUt^ In 
the ballad, the poet has imagined a Trt>gger 
to be perambulating the country, offering 
tile characters of the Tory or Galloway 
party for sale as Troggin. Mr. Heron again 



» §b«U^rt 



succeeded in beating his opponents, but noK 
till death had placed the poor poet beyocfl 
the reach of alt earthly joy or sorrow. 

Wha will buy my troggin. 

Fine election ware; 
Broken trade o' Broughton, 
A' in high repair. 
Buy braw troggin, 

Frae the banks o' Dee; 
Wha wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 

There's a noble earl's 

Fame and high renown,* 

For an auld sang — [stown. 

It's thought the guids were 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's the worth o' Broughtonf 

In a needle's ee; 
Here's a reputation 

Tint^ by Balmaghie.:}: 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's an honest conscience 

Might a prince adorn; 
Frae the downs o' Tinwald — 

Sae was never born.§ 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's the stuff and lining 

O' Cardoness' head;]] 
Fine for a sodger, 

A' the wale'^ o' lead. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's a little wadset, ^ 
Buittle's scrap a' truth,^ 

Pawn'd in a gin-shop, 
Quenching holy drouth. 
Buy braw troggin, &«. 

Here's armorial bearings 
Frae the manse o' Urr; 

The crest, and auld crab-apple * 
Rotten at the core. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 



I Lost. '^ Choice. ^ Mortgage. 
* The Earl of Galloway. 

t Mr. Murray of Broughton. 

X Gordon of Balmaghie. 

§ A sneering allusion to Mr. Bushby. 

II Maxwell of Cardoness. 

1 Rev. George Maxwell, minister of Buit 
tie. 

** An allusion to the Rev. Dr. MuirljCid 
ininister of Urr, in Galloway, 



BONGS. 



Here is Satan's picture, 

Like a bizzard gled,* 
Pounciug ]K)or Redcastle,f f 

Sprawlin' like a taed.* 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's the font where Douglas 
Stane and mortar names; 

Lately used at Caily 

Christening Murray's crimes. 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's the worth and wisdom 
CoUieston:}: X can boast; 

By a thievish midge^ 

They had been nearly lost. 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here is Murray's fragments 
O' the ten commands; 

lifted by black Jock, 

To get them aff his hands. 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Saw ye e'er sic troggin ? 

If to buy ye're slack, 
Hornie's'' turnin' chapman — 
He'll buy a' the pack. 
Buy braw troggin 

Frae the banks o' Dee, 
Wha wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 



FAIREST MAID ON DEVON 
BANKS. 

Tune—" Rothemurche," 

ia this song— composed during the last months 
of hts life, when prostrate with illness and 
oppressed with poverty— his mind wandered 
to the banks of the Devon, where he had 
&pent some happy days, when in the full 
flush of fame, in the company of the lovely 
Charlotte Hamilton. 

Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou were wont to 
do? 



Full well thou know'st I love thee. 

dear! 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear ? 
Oh, did not love exclaim, " Forbear, 

Nor use a faithful lovef so." 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, oh, let me share 
And by thy beauteous self I swear 
No love but thin© my heart shaL' 
know. 



OH, THAT I HAD NE'ER BEEN 

MARRIKD. 

The last verse only of this song is Burn*' 
the first is old. 

Oh, that I had ne'er been married, 

I wad never had nae care; 
Now I've gotten wife and bairns, 
And they cry crowdie' ever mail 
Ance crowdie, twice crowdie. 

Three times crowdie in a day. 
Gin ye crowdie ony mair, 
Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away. 

Waefu* want and hunger fley' me. 
Glowering by the hallan en'; 

Sair I fecht them at the door. 
But aye I'm eerie^ they come ben. 



« Kite. 6 Toad. « Gnat. ' Satan, 
tt W. S. Lawrie of Redcastle. 

t$ Coplan4 of CoUJe«oa. 



THE RUINED MAID'S LAMENT. 

Oh, meikle do I rue, fause love. 

Oh, sairly do I rue, [tongue, 

That e'er I heard your flattering 
That e'er your face I knew. 

Oh, I hae tint' my rosy cheeks. 
Likewise my waist sae sma'; 

And I hae lost my lightsome heart 
That little wist a f&' 

Now I maun thole^ the scornfu* sneer 

O' mony a saucy quean ; 
When, gin the truth were a' but kent. 

Her life's been waur than mine. 

Whene'er my father thinks on me, 

He stares into the wa'; 
My niither, she lias ta'en the bed 
Wi' tliinkin' on my fa'. 

. — ^ — » 

» Gruel. 2 Fright. » Afraid, 
> Loit. » Bcv. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Whene'er I hear my father's foot. 
My heart wad burst \vi' pain, 

Whene'er I meet my mither's ee, 
My tears rin down like rain. 

Alas ! sae sweet a tree as love 
Sic bitter fruit should bear ! 

Alas ! that e'er a bonny face 
Should draw a sauty tear ! 

But Heaven's curse will blast the man 

Denies the bairn he got. 
Or leaves the painfu' lass he loved 

To wear a ragged coat. 



KATHERINE JAFFRAY 

There lived a lass in yonder dale, 
And down in yonder glen, O ! 

And Katherine JafEray was her name, 
Weel known to many men, O ! 

Out came the Lord of Lauderdale, 
Out frae the south countrie, O ! 

All for to court this pretty maid, 
Her bridegroom for to be. ! 

He 's teU'd her father and mother 
baith, 

As I hear sundry say, O ! 
But he hasna tell'd the lass hersel, 

Till on her wedding day, ! 

Then came the Laird o' Lochinton, 
Out frae the English Border, 

All for to court this pretty maid. 
All mounted in good order. 



ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST. 

CHORUS. 

Robin shure in hairst,* 

I shure wi' him ; 
Fient a heuk^ had I, 

Yet I stack by him. 

I gaed up to Dunse, 

To warp a wab o' plaiden ; 
At his daddie's yett, ^ 

Wha met me but Robin ? 

Was na Robin bauld, 
Though I was a cotter ; 



Play'd me sic a trick. 

And me the eller's dochtert* 

Robin promised me 

A' my winter vittle ; 
Fient haet^ had he but three 

Goose feathers and a whittle. 



SWEETEST MAY. 

Sweetest May, let love inspire thee ^ 
Take a heart which he desires thee ; 
As thy constant slave regard it ; 
For its faith and truth reward it. 

Proof o' shot to birth or money. 
Not the wealthy, but the bonny ; 
Not high-born, but noble-minded. 
In love's silken band can bind it I 



WHEN I THINK ON THE HAPPt 
DAYS. 

When I think on the happy days 
I spent wi' you, my dearie ; 

And now what lands between us lie. 
How can I be but eerie ! 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 
As ye were wae and weary 1 

It was na sae ye glinted by 
When I was wi' my dearie. 



» Reaped in harvest, ' Sickle, » Gate. 



HUNTING SONG. 

Tune—" I rede you beware at the hunting," 
The heather was blooming, the mea- 
dows were mawn, [dawn, 
Our lads gaed a-hunting ae day at the 
O'er moors and o'er mosses, and mony 
a glen, [moor- hen. 
At length they discover'd a bonny 

I rede you beware at the hunting, 
young men; [young men-, 

I rede you beware at the hunting, 

Tak some on the wing, and some 
as they spring. [hen. 

But cannily steal on a bonny moor. 

Sweet brushing the dew from the 

brown heather bells, [fells; 

Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy 
f 

* Elder's daughter. ' Nothing* 



SONGS. 



391 



Her plumage outlustered xhe pride o' 

the spring, [wing. 

And oil, as she wanton'd ^'aT or iha 

Auld PhcEbus himsel, as he peeped 
o'er the hill, [skill, 

In spite, at her plumage he tried his 

He levell'd his rays, where she bask'd 
on the brae — 

His rays were outshone, and but 
mark'd where she lay. 

They hunted the valley, they hunted 
the hill, [skill. 

The best of our lads wi' the best o' their 

But still as the fairest she sat in their 
sight, [flight. 

Then, whirr ! she was over a mile at a 



OH, AYE MY WIFE SHE DANG 
ME. 

Tune -'* My wife she dang me." 

Oh, aye my wife she dang me. 

And aft my wife did bang me; 
If ye gie a woman a' her will, 

Guid faith, she'll soon o'ergang ye. 
On peace and rest my mind was bent, 

And fool I was I married; 
But never honest man's intent 

As cursedly miscarried. 

Some sairie comfort still at last, 

When a' their days are done, man; 
My pains o' hell on earth are past, 

I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. 
Oh, aye my wife she dang me. 

And aft my wife did bang me; 
' If ye gie a woman a' her will, 

Guid faith, she'll soon o'ergang ye. 



BROSE AND BUTTER. 

Oh, gie my love brose, brose, 
Gie my love brose and butter; 

For nane in Carrick or Kyle 
Can please a lassie better. 

The laverock lo'es the grass. 
The moor-hen loe's the heather; 

But gie me a braw moonlight, 
Me and my love to|jether. 



OH, WHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES 
ME? 
Tune—" Morag." 
Oh, wha is she that lo'es me. 

And has my heart a-keeping? 
Oh, sweet is she that lo'es me. 
As dews o' simmer weeping. 
In tears the rosebuds steeping I 

CHORUS. 

Oh, that's the lassie o' my heart, 

My lassie ever dearer; 
Oh, that's the queen of womankind. 

And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie. 
In grace and beauty charming. 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 
Erewhile thy breast sae warmings 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming; 

If thou hadst heard her talking. 
And thy attentions plighted. 

That ilka body talking. 
But her by thee is slighted. 
And thou art all delighted; 

If thou hadst met this fair one; 
When frae her thou hast parted. 

If every other fair one, 
But her thou hast deserted. 
And thou art broken-hearted. 



DAMON AND SYLVIA. 

Tune—" The tither morn, as I forlorn." 
Yon wandering rill that marks the hill. 

And glances o'er the brae, sir. 
Slides by a bower, where mony « 
flower 

Sheds fragrance on the dajf, sir. 

There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay. 
To love they thought nae crime, sir; 

The wild-birds sang, the echoes rang, 
While Damon's heart beat time, sir. 



SHELAH O'NEIL. 

When first I began for to sigh and ia 

woo her, [deal. 

Of many fine things I did say a great 



m 



buhns' works. 



But, above all the rest, that which 
pleased her the best 
Was, Oh, will you marry me, Shelah 
O'Neil? 
Mj point 1 soon carried, for straight 
we were married. 
Then the weight of my burden I 
soon 'gan to feel, — 
For she scolded, she fisted, oh, then 
I enlisted. 
Left Ireland, and whisky, and 
Shelah O'Neil. 

Then, tired and dull-hearted, oh, then 
I deserted. 
And fled into regions far distant 
from home ; 
To Frederick's army, where none e^er 
could harm me. 
Save Shelah herself, in the shape of 
a bomb. 
I fought every battle, where cannons 
did rattle, 
Felt sharp shot, alas ! and the sharp 
pointed steel ; 
But in all my wars round, thank my 
stars, I ne'er found 
Aught so sharp as the tongue of 
cursed Shelah O'Neil. 



THERE'S NEWS, LASSES, NEWS. 

There's news, lasses, news, 
Guid news I have to tell ; 

There's a boatfu' o' lads 
Coma to our town to sell. 



CHORUS. 

The wean' wants a cradle. 

And the cradle wants a cod«' 
And I'll no gang to my bed 

Until I get a nod. 

Father, quo' she, Mither, quo' she, 

Do what you can ; 
1 11 no gang to my bed 

Till 1 get a man. 

I hae as guid a craft rig 
As made o' yird and stane ; 

And waly fa' the ley-crap. 
For I maun till'd again. 



THERE WAS A WIFE 

There was a wife wonn'd in CooKpeEj 

Scroggam ; 
She brew'd guid ale for gentlemen. 
Sing, auld Cowl, lay you dovm by me, 
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 

The guidwife's dochter fell in a fever, 

Scroggam , 
The priest o' the parish fell in anither. 
Sing, auld Cowl, lay you down by me, 
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 

They laid the twa i' the bed thegither, 

Scroggam ; 
That the heat o' the tane might cool 

the tither. 
Sing, auld Caul, lay you down by me, 
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 



'Child. 



spiUow. 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONGS 
AND BALLADS, 

ANCIENT AND MODERN ; 

WITH ANECDOTES OF THEIR AUTHORS. 

BY 

ROBERT BURNS. 



*' There needs na be so great a phrase, 
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays, 
I wadna gie oi4r ain Strathspeys 

For half a hundred score o' 'em; 
They're douff and dowie, at the best, 
Douff and dowie, doufE and dowie ; 
They're douflf and dowie a' the best, 

Wi' a' their variorum : 
They're douflE and dowie at the best, 
Their allegroes, and at the rest, 
They cannot please a Scottish taste. 

Compared wi' Tullochgorum." 

Rev. Joiw Skinneb. 



"The following Remarks on Scottish 
Song," says Cunningham, "exist in 
the handwriting of Bums, in an inter- 
leaved copy of the first four volumes 
\ of Johnson's Musical Museum, which 
the poet presented to Captain Riddel, 
of Friar's Carse. On the death of 
Mrs. Riddel, these precious volumes 
passed into the hands of her niece, 
Eliza Bayley, of Manchester, who 
kindly permitted Mr. Cromek to tran- 
scribe and publish them in his volume 
of the Reliques of Burns. " 



THE HIGHLAND QUEEN. 
The Highland Queen, music and 
poetry, was composed by Mr. M'Vicar, 
purser of tiie Solebay man -of war. — 
This I had from Dr. Blacklock. 



The Highland King, intended as a parody 
on the former, was the production of a young 
lady, the friend of Charles Wilson, of Edin- 
burgh, who edited a collection of songs, ea< 
titled " Cecilia," which appeared in 1779. 

The following are specimens of these 
songs :— 

THE HIGHLAND QUEEN. 

flow blest that youth whom gentle fate 
Has destined for so fair a mate ! 
Has all these wond'ring gifts in store. 
And each returning day brings more ; 
No youth so happy can be seen. 
Possessing thee, my Highland Queen. 



THE HIGHLAND KING. 

Jamie, the pride of a' the green, 
Is just my age, e'en gay fifteen : 
When first I saw him, 'twas the day 
That ushers in the sprightly May ; 
Then first I felt love's powerful sting. 
And sigh'd for my dear Highland Kin|f, 



S94 



BURNS' WORKS. 



THE HIGHLAND QUEEN. 

No sordid wish, nor trifling joy, 
Her settled calm of mind destroy ; 
Strict honour fills her spotless soul, 
And adds a lustre to the whole • 
A match 'ess shape, a graceful mien, 
All centre in my Highland Queen. 



THE HIGHLAND KING. 

Would once the dearest boy but say 
*Tis you I love come, come away 
Unto the Kirk, my love, let's hie— 
Oh me ' in rapture I comply • 
And I should then have cause to sing 
The praises of my Highland King. 



BESS THE GAWKIE.* 

This song shows that the Scottish 
Muses did not all leave us when we 
lost Ramsay and Oswald ;f as 1 have 
good reason to believe that the verses 
and music are both posterior to the 
days of these two gentlemen. It is a 
beautiful song, and in the genuine 
Scots taste. We have few pastoral 
compositions, I mean the pastoral of 
nature, that are equal to this. 

Blithe young Bess to Jean did say. 

Will ye gang to yon sunny brae, 

Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray. 

And sport awhile wi' Jamie ? 
Ah, na, lass, I'll no gang there. 
Nor about Jamie tak nae care. 
Nor about Jamie tak nae care, 

For he's ta'en up wi' Maggy ! 

For hark, and I will tell you, lass, 
Did I not see your Jamie pass, 
Wi' meikle gladness in his face, 

Out o'er the muir to Maggy ? 
I wat he gae her mony a kiss. 
And Maggy took them ne'er amiss • 
'Tween ilka smack, pleased her with this. 

That Bess was but a gawkie. 

But whist I— nae mair of this we'll speak, 
For yonder Jamie does us meet . 
Instead of Meg he kiss'd sae sweet, 

I trow he likes the gawkie. 
Oh, dear Bess, 1 hardly knew. 
When I came by, your gown's sae new, 
I think you've got it wet wi' dew , 

Quoth she, that's like a gawkie. 



♦ The Rev. James Muirhead, minister of 
Urr, in Galloway, and whose name occurs in 
the Heron Ballads, and other of the poet's 
>atirical pieces, was the author of this song. 

t He was a London music-seller, and pub- 
lished a collection of Scottish tunes, entitled, 
** The Caledonian's Pocket Companion." 



The lassies fast frae him they flew, 
And left poor Jamie sair to rue 
That ever Maggy's face he knew. 

Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie. 
As they went o'er the muir they sang'. 
The hills and dales with echoes rang, 
The hills and dales with echoes rang, 

Gang o'er the muir to Maggy. 



OH, OPEN THE DOOR, LORD 
GREGORY 

It is somewhat singular that in Lan- 
ark, Renfrew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcud- 
bright, and Dumfries shires, there ia 
scarcely an old song or tune which, 
from the title, &c , can be guessed to 
belong to, or be the production of, these 
counties. This, I conjecture, is one of 
these very few; as the ballad, which is 
a long one, is called, both by tradition 
and in printed collections, *•' The Lass 
of Lochroyan," which I take to be 
Lochroyan in Galloway. 

Oh, open the door, Lord Gregory, 

Oh, open and let me in ; 
The wind blows through my yellow hair, 

The dew draps o'er my chin 
If you are the lass that I loved once. 

As I trow you are not she. 
Come gie me some of the tokens 

That pass'd 'tween you and me. 

Ah, wae be to you, Gregory ! 

An ill death may you die ; 
You will not be the death of one, 

But you'll be the death of three. 
Oh, don't you mind. Lord Gregory? 

'Twas down at yonder burn side 
We changed the ring off our fingers, 

And I put mine on thine. 



THE BANKS OF THE TWEED. 

This song is one of the many attempts 
that English composers have made to 
imitate the Scottish manner, and which 
I shall, in these strictures, beg leave to 
distinguish by the appellation of Anglo- 
Scottish productions. The music ia 
pretty good, but the verses are just 
above contempt. 

For to visit my ewes and to see my lambs play. 
By the banks of the Tweed and the groves 1 

did stray, [sigh'd. 

But my Jenny, dear Jenny, how oft have I 
And have vow'd endless love if you would b< 

my bride. 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONGf. 



'M 



To the altar of Hymen, my fair one, repair, 
Where a knot of affection shall tie the fond 

pair, [will we lead, 

To the pipes sprightly notes the gay dance 
And will bless the dear grove by the banks of 

the Tweed. 



THE BEDS OF SWEET ROSES. 

This song, as far as I know, for tho 
first time appears here in print. — 
When I was a boy, it was a very popular 
long in Ayrshire. I remember to have 
heard those fanatics, the Buchanites, 
sing some of their nonsensical rhymes, 
which they dignify with the name of 
hymns, to this air. 

As I was walking one morning in May, [gay ; 
The little birds were singing delightful and 
The little birds were singing delightful and 
gay ; [play, 

Where I and my true love did often sport and 

Down among the beds of sweet roses, [play, 
Where I and my true love did often sport and 

Pown among the beds of sweet roses. 

My daddy and my mammy I oft have heard 
them say, [and play ; 

That I was a naughty boy, and did often sport 

But I never liked in all my life a maiden that 
was shy, 

Down among the beds of sweet roses. 



ROSLIN CASTLE. 

These beautiful verses were the pro- 
duction of a Richard Hewit, a young 
man that Dr. Blacklock (to whom I am 
indebted for the anecdote) kept for 
some years as an amanuensis. * I do not 
know who is the author of the second 
Bong to the same tune. Tytler, in his 
amusing history of Scottish music, 
gives the air to Oswald; but in Os- 
wald's own collection of Scots tunes, 
when he affixes an asterisk to those he 
himself composed, he does not make 
the least claim to the tune. 

'TwAS in that season of the year. 
When all thin^ gay and sweet appear, 
That Colin, with the morning ray, 
Arose and sung his rural lay. 
Of Nanny's charms the shepherd sung. 
The hills and dales with Nanny rung ; 
While Roslin Castle heard the swain. 
And echo'd back the cheerful strain. 

* This gentleman subsequently became 
Secretary to Lord Milton, (then Lord Justice- 
Clerk,) but the fatiguing nature of his duties 
in that position hurt his health, and he died in 
1794' 



Awake, sweet Muse ! the breathing spring 
With rapture warms ; awake and sing ! 
Awake and join the vocal throng 
Who hail the morning with a song; 
To Nanny raise the cheerful lay. 
Oh, bid her haste and come away ; 
In sweetest smiles herself adorn. 
And add new graces to the morn ! 

Oh, hark, my love ! on every spray 
Each feather'd warbler tunes his fay ( 
'Tis beauty fires the ravish'd throng. 
And love inspires the melting song: 
Then let my raptured notes arise. 
For beauty darts from Nanny's eyes ; 
And love my rising bosom warms. 
And fills my soul with sweet alarms. 



SECOND VERSION. 

From Roslin Castle's echoing walls, 
Resound my shepherd's ardent calls ; 
My Colin bids me come away. 
And love demands I should obey. 
His melting strain, and tuneful lay. 
So much the charms of love display, 
I yield— nor longer can refrain. 
To own my love, and bless my swain. 

No longer can my heart conceal 
The painful-pleasing flame I feel: 
My soul retorts the am'rous strain ; 
And echoes back in love again. [grove 
Where lurks my songster ? from what 
Does Colin pour his notes of love ? 
Oh, bring me to the happy bower. 
Where mutual love may bliss secure I 

Ye vocal hills, that catch the song, 
Repeating as it flies along. 
To Colin's ears my strain convey. 
And say, I haste to come away. 
Ye zephyrs soft, that fan the gale, 
Waft to my love the soothing tale ; 
In whispers all my soul express. 
And tell I haste his arms to bljss ! 

Oh ! come, my love ! thy Colin's lay 
With rapture calls, oh, come away ! 
Come while the muse this wreath shall 

twine 
Around that modest brow of thine : 
Oh ! hither haste, and with thee bring 
That beauty blooming like the spring ; 
Those graces that divinely shine. 
And charm this ravish'd breast of mine ! 



SAW YE JOHNNIE CUMMIN! 
QUO' SHE. 

This song, for genuine humour in 
the verses, and lively originality in th« 
air, is unparalleled. I take it to ba 
very old. 

Saw ye Johnnie cummin ? quo' she, 

Saw ye Johnnie cummin. 
Oh, saw ye Juhnnie cummin, quu'she ; 

Saw ye Johnnie cummio, 



S9Q 



BTTRNS' WORKS. 



Wi' his blue bonnet on his head, 
And his doggie runnin'. quo' she ; 
And his doggie runnin ? 

Fee him, father, fee him, quo' she ; 

Fee him, father, fee him 
For he is a gallant lad. 

And a weel doin' ; 
And a' the wark about the house 

Gaes wi" me when I see him, quo' she ; 

Wi' me when I see him. 

What will I do wi' him, hussy ? 

What will I do wi' him ? 
He's ne'er a sark upon his back. 

And I hae nane to gie him. 
I hae twa sarks into my kist, 

And ane o' them I'll gie him, 
And for a mark of mair fee, 

Dinna stand wi' him, quo' she ; 

Dinna stand wi' him. 

For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she : 

Weel do I lo'e him ; 
Oh, fee him. father, fee him, quo' she ; 

Fee him, lather, fee him ; 
He'll baud the pleugh, thrash i' the barn, 

And lie wi' me at e'en, quo' she ; 

L^ wi' me at e'en. 



CLOUT THE CALDRON. 

A TRADITION is mentioned in the 
Bee, that the second Bishop Chisholm, 
of Dunblane, used to say that, if he 
were going to be hanged, nothing 
would soothe his mind so much by the 
way as to hear " Clout the Caldron" 
played. 

I have met with another tradition, 
that the old song to this tune, 

Hae ye ony pots or pans, 
Or ony broken chanlers, 

was composed on one of the Kenmure 
family in the cavalier times, and al- 
luded to an amour he had, while un- 
der hiding, in the disguise of an itiner- 
ant tinker The air is also known by 
the name of 

" The Blacksmith and his Apron," 

which, from the rhythm, seems to 
have been a line of some old song to 
tfe tune 

Hak ye ony pots or pans. 

Or ony broken chanlers ? 
For I'm a tinker to my trade. 

And newly come frae Flanders, 
As scant o" siller as o' grace. 

Disbanded, we've a bad run ; 
Gang tell the lady o' the place, 

I'm come to clout her caldron." 



Madam, if ye hae wark for me, 

I'll do't to your contentment. 
And dinna care a single flie 

For ony man's resentment : 
For, lady fair, though I appear 

To every ane a tinker. 
Yet to yoursel I'm bauld to tell 

I am a gentle jinker. 

Love, Jupiter into a swan 

Turn'd for his lovely Leda ; 
He like a bull o'er meadows ran. 

To carry off Europa- 
Then may not I, as well as he. 

To cheat your Arg^s blinker. 
And win your love, like mighty Jove, 

Thus hide me in a tinker ? 

Sir, ye appear a cunning man. 

But this fine plot ye'll fail in, 
For there is neither pot nor pan 

Of mine ye'll drive a nail in. 
Then bind your budget on your back. 

And nails up in your apron, 
For I've a tinker under tack 

That's used to clout my caldron. 



SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY? 

This charming song is much older, 
and indeed superior to Ramsay's verses, 
"The Toast," as he calls them. 
There is another set of the words, 
much older still, and which I take to 
be the original one; but though it has 
a very great deal of merit, it is not 
quite ladies' reading. 

The original words, for they can 
scarcely be called verses, seem to be aa 
follows; a song familiar from the era. 
die to every Scottish ear: — 

Saw ye my Maggie, 
Saw^ ye my Maggie, 
Saw ye my Maggie 
Linkin o'er the lea ? 

High kilted was she. 
High kilted was she, 
High kilted was she. 
Her coat aboon her knee. 

What mark has your Maggie, 
What mark has 'your Maggie, 
What mark has your Maggie, 
That ane may ken her be ? (by.)* 



* The. following verse was added by tlf 
Ettrick Shepherd — 

Maggie's a lovely woman, 
She proves true to no man, 
She proves true to no man, 
And has proven false to aOi 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



297 



Though it by no means follows that 
the silliest verses to an air must, for 
that reason, be the original song, yet 
I take this ballad, of which 1 have 
quoted part, to be the old verses. 
The two songs in Ramsay, one of them 
evidently his own, are never to be met 
with in the fireside circle of our peas- 
antry; while that which I take to be 
the old song, is in every shepherd's 
mouth. Ramsay, I suppose, had 
thought the old verses unworthy of a 
place in his collection. 

Saw ye nae my Peggy, 
Saw ye nae my Peggy, 
Saw ye nae my Peggy, 

Coming o'er the lea? 
Sure a finer creature 
Ne'er was form'd by nature. 
So complete each feature, 

So divine is she. 

Oh ! how Peggy charms me ! 
Every look still warms me ; 
Every thought alarms me ; 

t.est she love nae me. 
Peggy doth discover 
Nought but charms all over ; 
Nature bids me love her. 

That's a law to me. 

Who would leave a lover. 
To become a rover ? 
No, I'll ne'er give over, 

Till I happy be ! 
For since love inspires me, 
As her beauty fires me, 
And her absence tires me. 

Nought can please but she. 

When I hope to gain her, 

Fate seems to detain her, 

Could I but obtain her, 
Happy would I be ! 

I'll lie down before her. 

Bless, sigh, and adore her, 
- With faint look implore her 

i Till she pity me ! 



THE FLOWERS OP EDINBURGH. 

This song is one of the many cfcu- 
Bions of Scots Jacobitism. The title 
• * Flowers of Edinburgh" has no man- 
ner of connection with the present 
verses; so I suspect there has been an 
older set of words, of which the title is 
all that -remains. 

By the by, it is singular enough that 
the Scottish Muses were all Jacobites. 
1 have paid more attention to every 
oescriptiou of Scots songs than per- 



haps any body living has done; and 1 
do not recollect one single stanza, or 
even the title of the most trifling Scots 
air, which has the least panegyrical 
reference to the families of Nassau or 
Brunswick, while there are hundreds 
satirising them. This may be thought 
no panegyric on the Scots poets, but I 
mean it as such. For myself, I would 
always take it as a compliment to hav« 
it said that my heart ran before mv 
head; and surely the gallant though 
unfortunate house of Stuart, the kings 
of our fathers for so many heroic ages, 
is a theme much more interesting than 



Mv love was once a bonny lad ; 

He was the flower of a' his kin ; 
The absence of his bonny face 

Has rent my tender heart in twain. 
I day nor night fihd no delight- • 

In silent tears I still complain ; 
And exclaim 'gainst those, my rival foe«. 

That hae ta'en fra me my darling swain. 

Despair and anguish fill my breast 

Since I have lost my blooming rose: 
I sigh and moan while others rest ; 

His absence yields me no repose. 
To seek my love I'll range and rove 

Thfough every grove and distant plain; 
Thus I'll never cease, but spend my days 

T' hear tidings from my darling swain. 

There's nothing strange in nature's change. 

Since parents show such cruelty ; 
They caused my love from me to range, 

And know not to what destiny. 
The pretty kids and tender lambs 

May cease to sport upon the plain ; 
But I'll mourn and lament, in deep discontent* 

For the absence of my darling swain. 



JAMIE GAY. 

Jamie gay is another and a tolerable 
Anglo-Scottish piece. 

Of Jamie Gay, it will be enough to quote 
the first lines : — 

" As Jamie Gay gang'd blithe his way." 
A Scottish bard would have written : — 
" As Jamie Gay gaed blithe his way." 

The song was originally entitled " The Hapr- 
py Meeting," and frequently used to be sung 
at Ranelagh with great applause. 

MY DEAR JOCKEY. 
Another Anglo-Scottish produc. 
tion. 

We subjoin the first two verses of th« lady's 
lament :— a 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Mv laddie is gane far away o'er the plain, 
While in sorrow behind I am forced to re- 
main ; [adorn, 
Though blue bells and violets the hedges 
Though trees are in blossom and sweet blows 
the thorn, [gay , 
No pleasure they give me, in vain they look 
There's nothing can please me now Jockey's 

away , 
Forlorn I sit smging, and this is my strain, 
** Haste, haste, my dear Jockey, to me back 
again." 

When lads and their lasses are on the green 
met, [they chat ; 

They dance and they sing, and they laugh and 

Contented and happy, with hearts full of glee, 

1 can't, without envy, their merriment see ; 

Those pleasures offend me, my shepherd's 
not there ! 

No pleasure I relish that Jockey don't share ; 

It makes me to sigh, I from tears scarce re- 
frain, 

I wish my dear Jockey return d back again. 



FYE, GAE RUB HER O'ER WP 
STRAE. 

It is self-evident that the first four 
lines of this song are part of a song 
more ancient than Ramsay's beautiful 
verses which are annexed to them. 
As music is the language of nature, 
and poetry, particularly songs, is al- 
ways less or more localised ( if I may 
be allowed the verb) by some of the 
modifications of time and place, this is 
the reason why so many of our Scots 
airs have outlived their original and 
perhaps many subsequent sets of ver- 
ses, except a single name or phrase, or 
sometimes one or two lines, simply to 
distinguish the tunes by. 

To this day, among people who know 
nothing of Ramsay's verses, the follow- 
ing is the song, and all the song that 
ever 1 heard; 

Gin ye meet a bonny lassie, 
Gie her a kiss and let her gae ; 

But gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 
Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae. 

Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her, 
Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae . 

And gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 
Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae. 

" Ramsay's spirited imitation," says Cromek, 
"of the '■ Vides ut alic stet tiiz'e candidum^ 
Socrate ' of Horace, is considered as one of tlie 
happiest efforts of the author's genius."— For 
an elegant critique on the poem, and a com- 



parison of its merits with those of the original, 
the reader is referred to Lord Woodhouselee's 
" Rcviarks on the Writings o/ Ramsay." 

Look up to Pentland's towering tap. 
Buried beneath great wreaths of snaw. 

O'er ilka cleugh, ilk scar, and slap, 
As high as ony Roman wa'. 

Driving their baws frae whins or tee, 
There are nae gowfers to be seen ; 

Nor dousser fowk wysing a-jee 
The byass-bouls on Tamson's Green. 

Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs. 
And beek the house baith but and ben; 

That mutchkin stowp it bauds but dribs, 
Then let's get in the tappit hen. 

Good claret best keeps out the cauld. 
And drives away the winter soon ; 

It makes a man baith gash and bauld, 
And heaves his soul beyond the moon. 

Let next day come as it thinks fit, 
The present minute's only ours, 

On pleasure let's employ our wit. 
And laugh at Fortune's fickle powers. 

Be sure ye dinna quit the grip 
Of ilka joy, when ye are young, 

Before auld age your vitals nip, 
And lay ye twafald o'er a rung. 

Now to her heaving bosom cling. 
And sweetly tastie for a kiss , 

Frae her fair finger whoop a ring, 
As token of a future bliss. 

These benisons, I'm very sure. 
Are of the gods' indulgent grant : 

Then surly carles, whist, forbear 
To plague us wi' your whining cant. 

Sweet youth's a blithe and heartsome time; 

Then, lads and lasses, while 'tis May, 
Gae pu' the gowan in its prime. 

Before it wither and decay. 

Watch the saft minutes of deljjfe. 
When Jenny speaks beneath her breath. 

And kisses, laying a' the wyte 
On you, if she kept ony skaith. 

" Haith, ye're ill-bred," she'll smiling say; 

" Ye'll worry me, ye greedy rook • 
Syne frae yer arms she'll rin away. 

And hide hersel in some dark nook. 

Her laugh will lead you to the place 
Where lies the happiness you want, 

And plainly tells you, to your face, 
Nineteen nay-says are half a grant 

The s'ong of " Fye, gae rub her o'er wi* 
strae" is composed of the first four lines men- 
tioned by Burns, and the seven concluding 
verses of Ramsay's spirited and elegant Scot* 
tish version of Horace's ninth Ode, givea 
above. 



EEMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



299 



THE LASS OF LIVINGSTON. 

The old song, in three eight-line 
stanzas, is well known, and has merit 
as to wit and humour; but it is rather 
unfit for insertion.— It begins: 

»' The bonny loss o' Livingston, 

Her name ye ken, her name ye ken, 
And she has written in her contract, 
To lie her lane, to lie her lane, &c., &c. 

The modem version by Allan Ramsay is as 
follows :— 

Pain'd with her slighting Jamie's love, 

Bell dropt a tear, Bell dropt a tear ; 
The gods descended from above, 

Well pleased to hear, well pleased to hear. 
They heard the praises of the youth [tongue. 

From her own tongue, from her own 
Who now converted was to truth. 

And thus she sung, and thus she sung : 

Bless'd days, when our ingenuous sex 

More frank and kind, more frank and kmd. 
Did not their loved adorers vex. 

But spoke their mind, but spoke their mind. 
Repenting now, she promised fair. 

Would he return, would he return, 
She ne'er again would give him care. 

Or cause to mourn, or cause to mourn. 

Why loved I the deserving swain, [shame. 

Yet still thought shame, yet still thought 
When he my yielding heart did gain. 

To own my flame, to own my flame. 
Why took I pleasure to torment. 

And seem too coy, and seem too coy 
Which makes me now, alas ! lament 

My slighted joy, my slighted joy. 

Ye fair, while beauty's in its spring, 

Own your desire, own your desire. 
While love's young power, with his soft wmg, 

Fans up the fire, fans up the fire ; 
Oh, do not with a silly pride. 

Or low design, or low design. 
Refuse to be a happy bride, _ 

But answer plain, but answer plain. 

Thus the fair mourner 'wail'd her crime, 

With flowing eyes, with flowing eyes ; 
Glad Jamie heard her all the time 

With sweet surprise, with sweet surprise. 
Some god had led him to the grove. 

His mind unchanged, his mind unchanged, 
Jlew to her arms, and cried, my love, 

1 am revenged, I am revenged. 



line. This has always a finer effect 
than composing English words, or 
words with an idea foreign to the spirit 
of the old title. Where old titles of 
songs convey any idea at all, it will 
generally be found to be quite in the 
spirit of the air. 

There are," says Allan Cunningham 
" some fine verses in this song, though some 
fastidious critics pronounce them ovei 
warm:" — 

The last time I came o'er the moor, 

I left my love behind me : 
Ye powers, what pain do I endure. 

When soft ideas mind me. 
Soon as the ruddy morn display d. 

The beaming day ensuing, 
I met betimes my lovely maid 

In fit retreats for wooing. 

Beneath the cooling shade we lay. 

Gazing and chastly sporting ; 
We kissed and promised time away. 

Till night spread ner black curtain. 
I pitied all beneath the skies. 

Even kings, when she was nigh me ; 
In rapture I beheld her eyes. 

Which could but ill deny me. 

Should I be call'd where cannons roar. 

Where mortal steel may wound me ; 
Or cast upon some foreign shore. 

Where danger may surround me ; 
Yet hopes again to see my love, 

And feast on glowing kisses. 
Shall make my cares at distance move. 

In prospect of such blisses. 

In all my soul there's not one place 

To let a rival enter ; 
Since she excels in every grace. 

In her my love shall centre : 
Sooner the seas shall cease to flow. 

Their waves the Alps shall cover. 
On Greenland ice shall roses grow. 

Before I cease to love her. 



The next time I go o'er the moor. 

She shall a lover find me ; 
And that my faith is firm and pure, 

Though I left her behind me : 
Then Hvmen's sacred bonds shall chain, 

My heart to her fair bosom ; 
There, while my being does remain, 

My love more fresh shall blossom. 



THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER 
THE MOOR. 

Ramsay found the first line of this 
eong, which had been preserved as the 
title of the charming air, and then com- 
posed the rest of the verses to suit that J 



JOHNNIE'S GRAY BREEKS. 
Though this has certainly every 
evidence of being a Scottish air, yet 
there is a well-known tune and song 
in the North of Ireland, called " The 
Weaver and his Shuttle, O," which, 
though sung much quicker, is ever^ 
oote the very tune. 



800 



BURNS' WORKS. 



When I was in my se'enteenlh year, 

I was baith blithe and bonny, O ; 
The lads lo'ed me baith far and near ; 

But I lo'ed none but Johnnie, O. 
He gain'd my heart in twa three weeks, 

He spak sae blithe and kindly, O ; 
And I made him new gray breeks, 

That fitted him maist finely, O. 

He was a handsome fellow ; 

His humour was baith frank and free ; 
His bonny locks sae yellow. 

Like gowd they ghtter'd in my ee ; 
His dimpled chin and rosy cheeks. 

And face sae fair and ruddy, O ; 
And then a-day his gray breeks 

Were neither auld nor duddy, O. 

But now they are threadbare worn. 

They're wider than they wont to be ; 
They're a' tash'd-like, and unco torn, 

And clouted sair on ilka knee. 
But gin I had a simmer's day. 

As I hae had right mony, O, 
I'd make a web o new gray. 

To be breeks to my Johnnie, O. 

For he's weel worthy o' them. 

And better than I hae to gie ; 
But I'll take pains upo' them. 

And strive frae fau'ts to keep them free. 
To deed him weel shall be my care. 

And please him a' my study, O ; 
But he maun wear the auld pair 

A Tiiee, though they be duddy. O. 



THE HAPPY MARRIAGE.* 

Another, but very pretty, Anglo- 
Scottisli piece. 

How blest has my time been, what joys have 
I known, [own : 

Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my 
So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, 
That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. 

Through walks grown with woodbines, as 

often we stray. 
Around us our boys and girls frolic and play: 
How pleasing their sport is ! the wanton ones 

see. 
And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. 

To try her sweet temper, ofttimes am I seen. 
In revels all day with the nymphs on the green; 
Though painful my absence, my doubts she 
beguiles, [and smiles. 

And meets me at night with complaisance 

What though on her cheeks the rose loses its 
hue, [through ; 

Her wit and her humour bloom all the year 

Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her 
truth, [her youth. 

And gives to her mind what he steals from 

*This song was composed by Edward 
iCoore^ author of the well-known tragedy of 
Jfce " Gamester," and other works. 



Ye shepherds so gay, who make love ta 
ensnare, [fair; 

And cheat with false vows the too credulous 

In search of true pleasure how vainly you 
roam ! 

To hold it for Ufe, you must find it at home. 



THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL. 

In Sinclair's Statistical Account of , 
Scotland, this song is localis,-d (a verb 
I must use for want of another to ex- 
press my idea) somewhere in the north 
of Scotland, and is likewise claimed by 
A")rshire. The following anecdote I 
had from the present Sir William Cun- 
ningham of Robertland, who had it 
from John, the last Earl of Loudon. 
The then Earl of Loudon, and father to 
Earl John before mentioned, had Ram- 
say at Loudon, and one day walking 
together by the banks of Irvine water, 
near New Mills* at a place called Patie's 
Mill, they were struck with the appear- 
ance of a beautiful country girl. His 
lordship observed that she would be a 
fine theme for a song. Allan lagged 
behind in returning to Loudon Castle, 
and at dinner produced this identicai 
song. 

The lass of Patie's mill. 

So bonny, blithe, and gar. 
In spite of all my skill. 

Hath stole my heart away. 
When tedding of the hay, 

Bare-headed on the green. 
Love midst her locks did play. 

And wanton'd in her een. 

Her arms white, round, and smooth. 

Breasts rising in their dawn. 
To age it would give youth. 

To press them with his hand t 
Through all my spirits ran i 

An ecstasy of bliss, * 

When I such sweetness fand. 

Wrapt in a balmy kiss. 

Without the help of art. 

Like flowers which grace the wild 
She did her sweets impart. 

Whene'er she spoke or smiled. 
Her looks they were so mild. 

Free from affected pride. 
She me to love beguiled : 

I wish'd her for my bride. 

Oh, had I all that wealth 
Hopetoun's high mountains fill. 

Insured long life and health. 
And pleasure at my will, 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



m 



I'd promise and fulfil, 
Tnat none but bonny she, 

The lasso' Patie's Mill, 
Should share the same wi' me. 



THE TURNIMSPIKE. 

There is a stanza of this excellent 
Bong for local humour omitted in this 
eet where I have placed the aster- 
ims. 

They tak te horse then by te head, 
And tere tey mak her stan% man ; 

Me tell tem, me hae seen te day 
Tey no had sic comman', man. 

A Highlander laments, in a half-serious and 
half-comic way, the privations which the act 
of parliament anent kilts has made him en- 
dure, and the miseries which turnpike roads 
and toll-bars have brought upon his coun- 
try :- 

Hersell pe Highland shentleman, 
Pe auld as Pothwell Prig, man ; 

And mony alterations seen 
Amang te Lawland Whig, man. 

First when her to the Lawlands came, 
Nainsell was driving cows, man ; 

There was nae laws about him's nerse. 
About the preeks or trews, man. 

Nainsell did wear the philabeg. 
The plaid prick't on her shoulder ; 

The guid claymore hung pe her pelt, 
De pistol sharged wi' pouder. 

But for whereas these cursed preeks 
Wherewith her nerse be lockit. 

Oh hon ' that e'er she saw the day ! 
For a' her houghs be prokit. 

Every ting in de Highlands now 

Pe turn'd to alteration ; 
The sodger dwall at our door-sheek, 

And tat's te great vexation. 

Scotland be turn't a Ningland now. 
And laws pring on de cadger ; 

Nainsell wad durk him for his deeds, 
But oh ! she fear te sodger. 

Anither 1 aw came after that. 

Me never saw te like, man ; 
They mak a lang road on te crund, 

And ca' him Turnimspike^ man. 

And wow ! she pe a pouny road. 
Like louden corn- rigs, man ; 

Where twa carts may gang on her. 
And no preak ither's legs, man. 

They shar^e a penny for ilka horse. 
In troth she'll no be sheaper, 

For nought put gaen upo' the ground. 
And they gie me a paper. 



Nae doubts, himsel maun tra her purse. 
And pay them what hims like, man ; 

I'll see a shudgement on his toor ; 
That filthy Turnimspike, man. 

But I'll awa' to te Highland hills, 
Where teil a ane dare turn her. 

And no come near your Turnimspike, 
Unless it pe to purn her. 



HIGHLAND LADDIE. 

As this was a favourite theme with 
our later Scottish muses, there are 
several airs and songs of that name. 
That which I take to be the oldest is 
to be found in the Musical Museum., 
beginning " I hae been at Crookieden. ' 
One reason for my thinking so is that 
Oswald has it in his collection by the 
name of " The auld Highland Laddie. ' 
It is also known by the name of "Jing- 
lan Johnnie,*' which is a well-known 
song of four or five stanzas, and seems 
to be an earlier song than Jacobite 
times. As a proof of this, it is little 
known to the peasantry by the name of 
" Highland Laddie," while everybody 
knows " Jinglan Johnnie." The song 
begins 

Jinglan John, the meikle nian, 
He met wi' a lass was blithe and bonny. 

Another " Highland Laddie" is also 
in the Museum, vol. v. , which I take 
to be Ramsay's original, as he has bor- 
rowed the chorus — "Oh, my bonny 
Highland lad, " &c. It consists of three 
stanzas, besides the chorus, and has 
humour in its composition; it is an ex 
cellent, but somewhat licentious song. 
It begins 

As I cam o'er Cairney-Mount, 

And down amang the blooming heather 
Kindly stood the milking-shiel. 

To shelter frae the stormy weather. 

Oh, my bonny Highland lad. 

My winsome, weel-fard Highland laddie; 
Wha wad mind the wind and rain, 

Sae weel rcw'd in his tartan plaidie ? 

Now Phoebus blinkit on the bent, [ing^ 

And o'er the knowes the lambs were bleaii< 

But he wan my heart's consent 
To be his ain at the neist meeting. 

Oh. my bonny Highland lad. 

My winsome, weel-fard Highland laddie ; 
Wha wad mind the wind and rain, 

Sae weel row'd in his tartan plaidie \ 



802 



BURNS' WORKS. 



This air and the common "Highland 
Laddie" seem only to be different sets. 

Another " Highland Laddie," also in 
the Museum, vol. v., is the tune of 
several Jacobite fragments. One of 
these old songs to it only exists, as far 
as 1 know, in these four lines: — 

Whare hae ye been a' day, 
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie ? 

Down the back o' Bell's brae, 
Courtin' Maggie, courtin' Maggie." 

Another of this name is Dr. Arne's 
beautiful air called the new " Highland 
Laddie." 



THE GENTLE SWAIN. 

To sing such a beautiful air to such 
execrable verses is downright prostitu- 
tion of common sense! The Scots 
verses indeed are tolerable. 

The Scottish version, written by Mr. Mayne, 
commences thus :— 

Jeanie's heart was frank and free, 

And wooers she had mony yet. 
Her song was aye, Of a' I see. 

Commend me to my Johnny yet. 
For air and late he has sic a gate 

To make a body cheery, that 
I wish to be, before I die, 

His ain kind dearie yet. 



HE STOLE MY TENDER HEART 
AWAY. 

This is an Anglo- Scottish production, 
but by no means a bad one. 
The following is a specimen :— 

The fields were gr^en, the hills were gay, 
And birds were singing on each spray, 
When Colin met me in the grove, 
And told me tender tales of love, 
Was ever swain so blithe as he. 
So kind, so faithful and so free ? 
In spite of all my friends could say, 
Young Colin stole my heart away. 



finished, else, had I known in time, I 
would have prevented such an impu- 
dent absurdity. 

The following is a complete copy of Percy % 
beautiful lines:— 

O Nancy, wilt thou go with me, 
Nor sigh to leave the flauntmg town? 

Can silent glens have charms for thee, ~ 
I The lowly cot and russet gown ? 

No longer drest in silken sheen. 
No longer deck'd with jewels rare. 

Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, 
Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 

O Nancy, when thou'rt far away, 

Wilt thou not cast a wish behmd ? 
Say, canst thou face the parching ray, 

Nor shrink before the wintry wind ? 
Oh, can that soft and gentle mien 

Extremes of hardship learn to bear ; 
Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene. 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 

O Nancy ! canst thou love so true, 

Through perils keen with me to go. 
Or when thy swain mishap shall rue. 

To share with him the pang of woe? 
Say, should disease or pam befall, 

Wilt thou assume the nurse's care. 
Nor wistful those gay scenes recall. 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 

And when at last thy love shall die. 

Wilt thou receive his parting breath } 
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, 

And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? 
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay 

Strew flowers and drop the tender tear, 
Nor then regret those scenes so gay 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 

" This, writes Bums, " is perhaps the most 
beautiful ballad in the English language." 



FAIREST OF THE FAIR. 

It is too barefaced to take Dr. 
Percy's charming song, and, by means 
of transposing a few Englisli words 
into Scots, to offer to pass it for a Scots 
song. — I was not acquainted with the 
editor until the first volume was nearly 



THE BLAITHRIE OT. 

The following is a set of this son^, 
which was the earliest song I remem- 
ber to have got by heart. When a 
child, an old woman sung it to me, and 
I picked it up, every word at first 
hearing. 

O Willy, weel 1 mind, I lent you my hand 
To sing you a song which you did me com* 

mand ; 
But my memory's so bad, I had almost forgot 
That you call'd it the gear and the blaithrie o't 

I'll not sing about confusion, delusion ncfl 
pride, [bride; 

I'll sing about a laddie was for a virtuous 

For virtue is an ornament that time will nevef 
rot. 

And preferable to gear and the blaitbrie o t. 



HEMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONQf 



Though my lassie hae nae scarlets nor silks to 

Wput on, [throne ; 

e envy not the greatest that sits upon the 
I wad rathtr hae my lassie, though she cam 
in her smock, [o't. 

Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie 

Though we hae nae horses nor menzie* at 
command ; [our hand ; 

We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' 

And when wearied without rest, we'll find it 
sweet many spot, [o't. 

And we'll value not the gear and the blaithrie 

If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as 
lent ; [tent ; 

Hae we less, hae we mair, we will aye be con- 

For they say they hae mair pleasure that wins 
but a groat [o't. 

Than the miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie 

I'll not meddle wi' the affairs o' the kirk or 
the queen ; [sink, let them swim ; 

They're nae matters for a sang, let them 

On your kirk Til ne'er encroach, but I'll hold 
it still remote, 

Sae tak this for the gear and the blaithrie o't. 



MAT EVE OR KATE OF ABER- 
DEEN. 

Kate of Aberdeen" is, I believe, 
the work of poor Cunningham the 
player; of whom the following anec- 
dote, though told before, deserves a 
recital. A fat dignitary of the church 
coming past Cunningham one Sunday, 
as the poor poet was busy plying a 
fishing-rod in some stream near Dur- 
ham, his native county, his reverence 
reprimanded Cunningham very severe- 
ly for such an occupation on such a 
day. The poor poet, with that in- 
offensive gentleness of manners which 
was his peculiar characteristic, replied, 
that he hoped God and his reverence 
would forgive his seeming profanity of 
that sacred day, " as he had no dinner 
to eat hut what lay at the bottom of that 
pool /" This, Mr. Woods, the player, 
who knew Cunningham well, and es- 
teemed him much, assured me was 
true. 

The silver moon's enamour'd beam 
Steals softly through the night. 

To wanton with the winding stream, 
And kiss reflected light. 

♦ Menzie— KctiauG, followei'B. 



To beds of state go, balmy Sleep, 

Where you've so seldom been. 
Whilst I May's wakeful vigils keep 

With Kate of Aberdeen! 

The nymphs and swains expectant wait« 

In primrose chaplets gay. 
Till morn unbars her golden gate, 

And gives the promised May. 
The nymphs and swains shall all declare 

The promised May, when seen, 
Not half so fragrant, half so fair, 

As Kate of Aberdeen ! 

I'll tune my pipe to playful notes. 

And lOuse yon nodding grove ; 
Till new-waked birds distend their throata 

And hail the maid I love. 
At her approach the lark mistakes. 

And quits the new-dress'd green : 
Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks : 

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen ! 

Now blithesome o'er the dewy mead, 

Where elves disportive play ; 
The festal dance young shepherds lead, 

Or sing their love-tuned lay. 
Till May in morning robe draws nigh. 

And claims a Virgin Queen • 
The nymphs and swains, exulting, cry. 

Here's Kate of Aberdeen ! 



TWEED-SIDE. 

In Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, he 
tells us that about thirty of the songs 
in that publication were the works of 
some young gentlemen of his acquaint- 
ance, which songs are marked with 
the letters D. C, &c.— Old Mr. Tytler 
of Woodhouselee, the worthy and able 
defender of the beauteous Queen of 
Scots, told me that the songs marked 
C. in the Tea-table were the composi- 
tion of a Mr. Crawford, of the house of 
Achnames, who was afterwards unfor- 
tunately drowned coming from Franca 
As Tytler was most intimately ao 
quainted with Allan Ramsay, I think 
the anecdote may be depended on. Of 
consequence, the beautiful song of 
Tweed-side is Mr. Crawford's, and in. 
deed does great honour to his poetical 
talents. He was a Robert Crawford; 
the Mary he celebrates was a Mary 
Stuart, of the Castle-Milk family,* 

* In a copy of Cromek's Reliques of Burns 
there is the following note on this passage in 
Sir Walter Scott's handwriting:—" Miss Mary 
Lillias Scott was the eldest daughter oi Joha 
Scott of Harden, aud well known in ♦*)# 



804 



BURNS* WORKS. 



afterwards married to a Mr. John Rit- 
chie. 

I have seen a song, calling itself the 
original Tweed-side, and said to have 
been composed by a Lord Tester. It 
consisted of two stanzas, of which I 
still recollect the first — 

When Maggy and I was accjuaint, 

I carried my noddle fu' high ; 
Nae lintwhite on a' the green plain, 

Nor gowdspink, sae happy as I ; 
But I saw her sae fair, and I lo'd : 

I woo'd, but I cam nae great speed ; 
So now I maun wander abroad. 

And lay my banes far frae the Tweed.t 

The following is Crawford's song, which is 
Still popular: — 

What beauties doth Flora disclose ! 

How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed ! 
Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those, 

Both nature and fancy exceed, 
Nor daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, 

Nor all the gay flowers of the field. 
Nor Tweed, gliding gently through those, 

Such beauty and pleasure do yield. 

The warblers are heard in the grove, 

The linnet, the lark, and the thrush. 
The blackbird and sweet cooing dove 

With music enchant every bush. 
Come, let us go forth to the mead. 

Let us see how the primroses spring. 
We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, 

And love while the feather'd folks sing. 

How does my love pass the long day ? 

Does Mary not tend a few sheep ? 
Do they never carelessly stray ? 

While happily she lies asleep ? 



fashionable world by the nick-name of Cadie 
Scott, I believe, because she went to a masked 
ball in such a disguise. I remember her, an 
old lady, distinguished tor elegant manners 
and high spirit, . though struggling 
under the disadvantages of a narrow income, 
as her father's estate, being entailed on heirs 
male, went to another branch of the Harden 
family, then called the High Chester family. 
I have heard a hundred times, from those who 
lived at the period, that Tweed-side, and the 
song called Mary Ccott, the Flower of Yarrow, 
were both written upon this much-admired 
lady, and could add much proof on the subject, 
did space permit." 

t The following is the other stanza:— 

To Maggy my love I did tell, 

Saut tears did my passion express ; 
Alas ! for I lo'ed her o'er well. 

And the women lo'e'sic a man less. 
Her heart it was frozen and cauld. 

Her pride had my ruin decreed ; 
Therefore I will wander abroad, 

And lay my banes far frae the Tweed 



Tweed's murmurs should lull her to /est» 
Kind nature indulging my bliss. 

To ease the soft pains of my breait, 
I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. 

*Tis she does the virgin excel, 

No beauty with her may compare : 
Love's graces around her do dwell. 

She's fairest, where thousands are fair. 
Say, charmer, where do thy fiock stray ? 

Oh ! tell me at noon where they feed ; 
Is it on the sweet wending Tay, 

Or pleasanter banks of the Tweed ? 



THE POSIE. 

It appears evident to me that Oswald 
composed his " Roslin Castle" on the 
modulation of this air.* — In the second 
part of Oswald's, in the three first bars, 
he has either hit on a wonderful simil- 
arity to, or else he has entirely borrow- 
ed, the three first bars of the old air; 
and the close of both tunes is almost 
exactly the same. The old verses to 
which it was sung, when I took down 
the notes from a country girl's voice, 
had no great merit. — The following is 
a specimen : — 

There was a pretty may,^ and a milkin' she 

went, [hair ; 

Wi' her red rosy cheeks and her .coal black 

And she has met a young man a comin' o'er 

the bent. 

With a double and adieu to thee, fair may. 

Oh, where are ye goin', my ain pretty may, 
Wi' thy red rosy cheeks and thy coal black 
hair? 

Unto the yowes a milkin', kind sir, she says. 
With a double and adieu to thee, fair may. 

What if I gang alang wi' thee, my ain pretty 

may, [hair ? 

Wi' thy red rosy cheeks and thy coal black 

Wad I be aught the warse o' that, kind sir, 

she says. 

With a double and adieu to thee, fair maye 



MARY'S DREAM. 

The Mary here alluded to is gener- 
ally supposed to be Miss Mary M'Ghie, 
daughter to the Laird of Airds, in 
Galloway. The poet was a Mr. John 

1 Maid. 
* This is a mistake— Oswald was not tk« 
composer of Roshn Castle« y 



HEMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



Lowe f who likewise wrote another 
beautiiul song, called Pompey's Ghost. 
—I have seen a poetic epistle from him 
m North America, where he now is, or 
lately was, to a lady in Scotland. — By 
the strain of the verses, it appeared 
that they allude to some love affair. 

The moon had climbed the highest hill 

Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 
And from the eastern summit shed 

Her silver light on tower and tree, 
When Mary laid her down. to sleep. 

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea ; 
When, soft and low, a voice she heai'd, 

Saying, " Mary, weep no more for me !" 

She from her pillow gently raised 

Her head to ask who there might be ; 
She saw young Sandy shivering stand, 

With visage pale and hollow ee : 
O Mary dear ! cold is my clay. 

It lies beneath a stormy sea ; 
Far, far from thee I sleep m death.— 

So, Mary, weep no more for me ! 

Three stormy nights and stormy days 

We toss'd upon the raging main, 
And long we strove our bark to save, 

But all our stniving was in vam. 
Even then, when horror chill'd my blood, 

My heart was fill'd with love for thee ; 
The storm is past, and I at rest. 

So, Mary, weep no more for me ! 

O maiden dear, thyself prepare. 

We soon shall meet upon that shore 
Where love is free from doubt and care, 

And thou and I shall part no more. 
Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled, 

No more of Sandy could she see ; 
But soft the passing spirit said, 

" Sweet Mary, weep no more for me !" 



THE MAID 



THAT TENDS THE 
GOATS. 



BY MR. DUDGEON. 

This Dudgeon is a respectable farm- 
er's son in Berwickshire 



t He was a .lative of Kenmore in Galloway, 
and was employed as a tutor m the family of 
M'Ghie of Airds, about 1770, when the inci- 
dent recorded m the song occurred. Miss 
Mary M Ghie, a daughter of his employer's, 
having been bietrothed tea young gentleman 
of the name of Mil'er, who was at this time 
unfortunately lost at sea, Lowe commemor- 
ated the melancholy event in the above beau- 
tiful song. He afterwards emigrated to the 
United States, where he made an unfortunate 
marriage, the grief occasioned by which drove 
bim into dissipated habits, that brought him 
IP aa eafZy grave. 



Up aman^ yon cliffy rocks, 

Sweetly rings the rising echo. 

To the maid that tends the goats. 

Lilting o'er her native notes. 

Hark, she sings, Young Sandie's kind, 

And he's promised aye to lo'e me. 

Here's a brooch, I ne'er shall tine. 

Till he's fairly married to me. 
Drive away, ye drone Time, 
And bring about our bridal day. 

Sandy herds a flock o' sheep, 

Aften does he blaw the whistle, 

In a strain sae vastly sweet, 

Lam'ies listening dare na bleat; 

He's as fleet's the mountain roe. 

Hardy as the Highland heather. 

Wading through the winter snow. 

Keeping aye his flock together ; 
But wi' plaid and bare houghs 
He braves the bleakest northern blast. 

Brawly he can dance and ring. 
Canty glee, or Highland cronach s 
Nane can ever match his fling. 
At a reel, or round a ring : 
Wightly can he wield a rung. 
In a brawl he's aye the baughter; 
A' his praise can ne'er be sung 
By the langest winded sangster. 

Sangs that sing o' Sandy, 

Seem short, though they were e'er sae lang. 



I WISH MY LOVE WERE IN A 
MIRE. 

I NEVER heard more of the words of 
this old song than the title. 

The old song began with these character- 
istic words • — 

I wish my love were in a mire, 
That I might pu' her out again. 

The verses in the Museum are merely 4 
translation from Sappho by Ambrose P\i*l» 
lips :— 

Blest as the immortal gods is he, 
The youth who fondly sits by thee. 
And hears and sees thee all the while 
» So softly speak and sweetly smile. 

'Twas this bereaved my soul of rest. 
And raised such tumults in my breast. 
For while I gazed, in transport toss'd., 
My breath was gone, my voice was lost. 

My bosom glow'd, the subtle flame 
Ran quick through all my vital frame; 
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung. 
My ears with hollow murmurs rung. 

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'dj 
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd; 
My feeble pulse forgot to play ; 
I tainted— sunk— and died awaf« 



8oe 



BURNS' WORKS. 



ALLAN WATER. 

This Allan Water, which the com- 
poser of the music has honoured with 
the name of the air, I have been told is 
Allan Water in Strathallan. 

What numbers shall the muse repeat, 

What verse be found to praise my Annie ; 
On her ten thousand graces wait, 

Each swain admires and owns she's bonny. 
Since first she strode the happy plain, 

She set each youthful heart on fire ; 
Each nymph does to her swain complain, 

That Annie kindles new desire. 

This lovely, darling, dearest care, 

This new delight, this charming Annie, 
Like summer's dawn she's fresh and fair, 

When Flora's fragrant breezes fan ye. 
All day the am'rous youths convene. 

Joyous they sport and play before her ; 
All night, when she no more is seen, 

In joyful dreams they still adore her. 

Among the crowd Amyntor came, 

He look'd, he lov'd, he bow'd to Annie ; 
His rising sighs express his flame. 

His words were few, his wishes many. 
With smiles the lovely maid replied. 

Kind shepherd, why should I deceive ye? 
Alas ! your love must be denied. 

This destined breast can ne'er relieve ye. 

Young Damon came with Cupid's art, 

His wiles, his smiles, his charms beguiling ; 
He stole away my virgin heart ; 

Cease, poor Amyntor ! cease bewailing. 
Some brighter beauty you may find ; 

On yonder plain the nymphs are many : 
Then choose some heart that's unconfined. 

And leave to Damon his own Anaie. 



THERE'S NAE LUCK 
THE HOUSE.* 



ABOUT 



This is one of the most beautiful 
songs in the Scots, or any other, lan- 
guage. — The two lines, 

And will I see his face again ? 
And I will hear him speak ? 

as well as the two preceding ones, are 
unequalled almost by an}"tliing I ever 
heard or read; and the lines. 

The present moment is our ain. 
The neist we never saw. 



* William Julius Mickle, a native of Lang- 
holm, on the Borders, and well known as the 
translator of Camoens' immortal poem, "The 
Lusiad," was the author of this song. He 
was born in 1734, and died in 1788. 



are worthy of the first poet. It i^long 
posterior to Ramsay's days. Abaiit the 
year 1771, or 1772, it came firirt on the 
streets as a ballad; and I ?u;»pa'»e tb'i* 
composition of the song was no* muoH 
anterior to that period. 

There's nae luck about the house. 

There's nae luck at a' ; 
There's little pleasure in the hous»- 

When our guidman's awa*. 

And are you sure the news is true ? 

And do you say he's weel ? 
Is this a time to speak of wark ? 

Ye jades, lay by your wheel ! 
Is this a time to spin a thread, 

When Colin's at the door ? 
Reach me my cloak, I'll to the quay 

And see him come ashore. 

And gie to me my bigonet. 

My bishop's satin gown ; 
For I maun tell the bailie's wife 

That Colin's in the town. 
My turken slippers maun gae on, 

My stockings pearly blue ; 
'Tis a' to pleasure my guidman, 

For he's baith leal and true. 

Rise, lass, and make a clean firesid 

Put on the muckle pot ; 
Gie little Kate her button gown, 

And Jock his Sunday coat ; 
And mak their shoon as black as slaes 

Their hose as white as snaw ; 
'Tis a' to pleasure my guidman, 

For he's been lang awa'. 

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop, 

Been fed this month and mair ; 
Mak haste and thraw their necks about, 

That Colin weel may fare ; 
And mak the table neat and trim ; 

Let every thing be braw ; 
For who kens how my Colin fared 

When he was far awa'. 

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, 

His breath like caller air. 
His very foot hath music in't^ 

As he comes up the stair. 
A nd shall I see his /ace again ? 

And shall I hear him speak ? 
I'm downright giddy wi' the thought, 

In truth I'm like to greet. 

If Colin's weel, and weel content, 

I hae nae mair to crave ; 
And gin I live to mak him sae, 

I'm blest aboon the lave. 
And shall I see his face again ? &c. 



Tarry woo. 

This is a very pretty song: but I fancy 
that the following first half -stanza, a? 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



301F 



well as tlie tune itself, is much older 
than the rest of the words. 

Oh, tarry woo is ill to spin, 
Card it weel e'er ye begin ; 
Card it weel and draw it sma', 
Tarry woo's the best of a'. 



GRAMACHREE. 

The. song of Gramachree was com- 
posed by Mr Poe, a counsellor at law 
in Dublin. This anecdote I had from 
a gentleman who knew the lady, the 
"Molly," who is the subject of the 
song, and to whom Mr. Poe sent the 
first manuscript of these most beauti- 
ful verses. I do not remember any 
single line that has more true pathos 
than 

How can she break the honest heart that 
wears her in its core ! 

But as the song is Irish, it had nothing 
to do in this collection. 

As down on Banna's banks I stray'd, 

One evening in May, 
The little birds m blithest notes 

Made vocal every spray : 
They sang their little notes of love: 

They sang them o'er and o'er, 
Ah ! gramachree, mo challie nouge, 

Mo Molly Astore. 

The daisy pied, and all the sweets 

The dawn of nature yields ; 
The primrose pale, the violet blue, 

Lay scatter'd o'er the fields , 
Such fragrance in the bosom lies 

Of her whom I adore, 
Ah ' gramachree, mo challie nouge, 

Mo Molly Astore. 

I laid me down upon a bank, 

Bewailing my sad fate, 
That doom'd me thus the slave of love, 

And cruel Molly's hate. 
How can she break the honest heart 

That wears her in its core • 
Ah ! gramachree, mo challie nouge. 

Mo Molly Astore. 

You said you loved me, Molly dear ; 

Ah! why did I believe ? 
Yes, who could think such tender words 

Were meant but to deceive ? 
That love was all I ask'd on earth. 

Nay, heaven could give no more, 
Ah ! gramachree, mo challie nouge, 

Mo Molly Astore; 

Oh ; had I all the flocks that graze, 

On yonder yellow hill : 
Or low'd for me the num rous herds, 
That yon green pastures fill ; 



With her I love I'd gladly share 

My kine and fleecy store, 
Ah ! gramachree, mo challie nouge, 

Mo Molly Astore. 

Two turtle doves above my head. 

Sat courting on a bough ; 
I envy'd them their happiness. 

To see them bill and coo ; 
Such fondness once for me she show'd. 

But now, alas ! 'tis o'er : 
Ah ! gramachree, mo challie nouge, 

Mo Molly Astore. 

Then fare thee well, my Molly dear. 

Thy loss I still shall moan ; 
Whilst life remains in Strephon's heart, 

'Twill beat for thee alone 
Though thou art false, may Heaven on the« 

Its choicest blessings pour! 
Ah ! gramachree, mo challie nouge. 

Mo Mollie Astore. 



THE COLLIER'S BONNY LASSIR 

The first half stanza is much older 
than the days of Ramsay.— The old 
words began thus: — 

The collier has a dochter, and, oh, she's won- 
der bonny ; [lands and money. 

A laird he was that sought her, rich baith in 

She wad nae hae a laird, nor wad she be a 
lady ; [daddie. 

But she wad hae a collier, the colour o' her 

The verses in the Museum are very pretty; 
but Allan Ramsay's songs have always nature 
to recommend them :— 

THECollier has a daughter, 

And oh. she's wonder bonnyl 
A laird he was that ijought her. 

Rich baith in land and money* 
The tutors watch'd the motion 

Of this young honest lover, 
But love is like the ocean.-, 

Wha can its deepa discover? 

He had the heart to please ye, 

And was by a' r<:spected. 
His airs sat round him easy, 

Genteel, but unaffected. 
The Collier's bonny lassie. 

Fair as the new-blown lily, 
Aye sweet and never saucy. 

Secured the heart of Willie. 

He loved beyond expression, 

The charms that were about b** 
And panted for possession, 

His life was dull without her. 
After mature resolving. 

Close to his breast he held h«T 
In saftest flames dissolving, 

He tenderly thus tell'd her— 

'• My bonny Collier's daughtcf 
Let naething discompose y«, 

'Tis no your scanty tocher 
Shall ever gar me lose yet 



908 



BURNS' WORKS. 



For 1 have gear in plenty. 
And love says 'tis my duty 

To wear what Heaven has lent me, 
Upon your vrit and beauty." 



MY AIN KIND DEARIE, O. 

The old words of this song are omit- 
ted here, though much more beautiful 
than these inserted: which were mostly 
composed by poor Fergusson, in one of 
his merry humours. The old words 
began thus; — 

I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie, O. 
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind deane, O, 
Although the night were ne'er sae wat. 

And I were ne'er sae weary, O, 
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie, O. 

The following are Fergusson's verses ; — 

Nae herds wi' kent and collie there 
Shall ever come to fear ye, O, 

But laverocks whistling in the air. 
Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O ! 

While others herd their lambs and ewes. 
And toil for world's gear, my jo. 

Upon the lee my pleasure grows, 
Wi' you, my kind dearie, O ! 

Will ye gang o'er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O ? 
And cuddle there, sae kindly wi' me. 

My kind dearie, O ! 

At thorny dike, and birkin tree. 
We'll daff , and ne'er be wearj', O ' 

They'll sing ill e'en frae you and me. 
My aia kmd deane, O f 



MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OF 
YARROW. 

Mr. Robertson, in his statistical 
account of the parish of Selkirk, says, 
that Mary Scott, the Flower of Yar- 
row, was descended from the Dryhope, 
and married into the Harden family. 
Her daughter was married to a prede- 
cessor of the present Sir Francis Elliot 
of Stobbs, and of the late Lord Heath- 
field. 

There is a circumstance in their con- 
tract of marriage that merits attention, 
and it strongly marks the predatory 
spirit of the times. The father-in-law 



agrees to keep his daughter for som« 
time after the marriage ; for which the 
son-in-kiw binds himself to give him 
the profits of the first Michaelmas 
moon.* 

Allan Ramsay's version is as fol- 
lows: — 

Happy's the love which meets return. 
When in soft flame souls equal burn ; 
But words are wanting to discover 
The torments of a hapless lover. 
Ye registers of heaven, relate. 
If looking o er the rolls of fate, 
Did you there see me mark'd to marrow ; 
Mary Scott, the flower of Yarrow. 

Ah, no ! her form's too heavenly fair. 
Her love the gods alone must share r 
While mortals with despair explore her. 
And at a distance due adore her. 
O lovely maid ! my doubts beguile, 
Revive and bless me with a smile; 
Alas, if not, you'll soon debar a 
Sighing swain on the hanks of Yarrow. 

Be hush'd, ye fears ! I'll not despair. 
My Mary's tender as she's fair ; 
Then I'll go tell her all mine anguish. 
She is too good to let me languish ; 
With success crown'd, I'll not envy 
The folks who dwell above the sky ; 
When Mary Scott's become my marrow. 
We'll make a paradise of Yarrow. 



DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE. 

I HAVE been informed that the tune 
of " DoyN-n the Bum, Davie," was the 
composition of David Maigh, keeper 
of the blood slough-hounds, belonging 
to the Laird of Riddel, in Tweeddale. 

When trees did bud, and fields were green, 

And broom bloom'd fair to se§ ; 
When Mary'was complete fifteen. 

And love laugh'd in her ee ; 
Blithe Davie's blinks her heart did move, 

To speak her mind thus free, 
" Gang down the burn, Davie, love, 

And I shall follow thee." 

Now Davie did each lad surpass 

That dwalt on yon burn side. 
And Mar>' was the bonniest lass. 

Just meet to be a bride ; 
Her cheeks were rosy, red and white. 

Her een were bonny blue : 
Her looks were like Aurora bright. 

Her lips like dropping dew. 



* The time when the moss-troopers and 
cattle-reavers on the Bordeis began of yore 
their nightly depredations. 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



301 



As down the burn they took their way. 
What tender tales they said ! 

His cheek to hers he aft did lay. 
And with her bosom play'd ; 

Till baith at length impatient grown 
To be mair fully blest. 

In yonder vale they lean'd them down- 
Love only saw the rest. 

What pass'd I guess was harmless play, 

And naething sure unmeet : 
For ganging hame, I heard them say, 

They liked a walk sae sweet ; 
And that they aften should return 

Sic pleasure to renew, 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the bum, 

And aye shall follow you." 



BLINK O'ER THE BURN, SWEET 

BETTY. 
The old words, all that I remember, 



Blink over the bum, sweet Betty, 

It is a cauld winter night ; 
It rains, it hails, it thunders. 

The -noon she gies nae light : 
It's a' for the sake o' sweet Betty 

That ever I tint my way ; 
Sweet, let me lie beyond thee 

Until it be break o' day. 

Oh, Betty will bake my bread. 

And Betty will brew my ale. 
And Betty will be my love. 

When I come over the dale ; 
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 

Blink over the bum to me, 
And while I hae life, dear lassie. 

My ain sweet Betty thou's be. 



THE BLITHESOME BRIDAL.* 

I FiKD the " Blithesome Bridal " in 
James Watson's collection of Scots 
Poems printed at Edinburgh, in 1706. 
This collection, the publisher savs, is 
the first of its nature which has been 
published in our o\vn native Scots dia- 
lect — it is now extremely scarce. 

The entire song is much too long for quota- 
tion ; but the following verses, describing the 
guests who were to be present and the dishes 
to be provided for them, will convey a very 
fair idea of its merit :— 

Come, fye, let us a' to the wedding, 
For there will be lilting there, 

* There appears to be some dubiety about 
the authorship of this humorous ballad, it 
Ivaving beec assigned to Sir William Scott of 
■fcirlestane and Francis Sempill of Beltrees. 



l^or Jock will be married to Maggie, 
The lass wi' the gowden hair. 

And there will be lang kail and castocks, 
And bannocks o' barley-meal ; 

And there will be guid saut herring. 
To relish a cog o' guid ale. 

And there will be Sandy the sutor. 

And Will wi' the meikle mou. 
And there will be Tam the blutter. 

With Andrew the tinkler, I trow; 
And there will be bow-leggd Robie, 

With ihumbiess Katies gudeman. 
And there v.ill be blue-cheek'd DobbiCf 

And Laurie, the laird of the land. 

And there will be sow-libber Patie, 

And plookie-faced Wat o' the mill ; 
Capper-nosed Francis and Gibbie, 

That wons i' the Howe o' the hill ; 
And there will be Ahster Sibbie, 

Wha in wi" black Bessie did mool. 
With snivelling Lillie and Tibbie, 

The lass that stands aft on the stooL 



And there will be fadges and brochan, 

Wi' routh o' gude gabbocks o' skate ; 
Powsowdie and drammock and crowdie. 

And caller nowt feet on a plate ; 
And there will be partans and buckies. 

And whitings and speldings anew; 
With singed sheep heads and a haggis. 

And scadlips to sup till ye spew. 

And there will be lapper'd milk kebbuck, 

And sowens, and carles, and laps ; 
Wi' swats and well -scraped paunches. 

And brandy in stoups and in caps ; 
And there will be meal-kail and porrid^rs* 

Wi' skirk to sup till ye rive. 
And roasts to roast on a brander, 

Of flewks that were taken alive. 

3crapt haddocks, wilks, dulse, and tangle. 

And a mill o' guid sneeshin to prie. 
When weary wi' eating and drinsing. 

We'll rise up and dance till we die : 
Then fye let's a' to the bridal. 

For there will be lilting there, 
For Jock '11 be married to Maggie, 

The lass wi' the gowden hair. 



JOHN HAY'S BONNY LASSIE, 

John Hay's "Bonny Lassie" was the 
daughter of John Hay, Earl or Mar- 
quis of Tweeddale, and the late Count- 
ess Dowager of Roxburgh. She died 
at Broomlands. near Kelso, some time 
between the years 1720 and 1740. 

She's fresh as the spring, and sweet as Aurora, 
When birds mount and sing, bidding day a 

good morrow ; 
The sward o' the mead, enamel'd wi' daisies. 
Look wither'd and dead when twinn'd of hel 

graces. 
But if she appear where verdures invite her, 



SIO 



BURNS' WORKS. 



The fountains run clear, and flowers smell the 

sweeter ; 
Tis heaven to be by when her wit is a-flow- 

Her smiles and bright een set my spirits 
a-glowing. 



'THE BONNY BRUCKET LASSIE. 

The first two lines of this song are 
all of it that is old. The rest of the 
song, as well as those songs in the 
Museum marked T., are the works of 
an obscure, tippling, but extraordinary 
body of the name of Tytler, commonly 
known by the name of Balloon Tytler, 
from his having projected a balloon: 
a mortal, who, though, he drudges 
about Edinburgh as a common printer, 
with leaky shoes, a sky-lighted hat, 
and knee- buckles as unlike as George- 
by-the-grace-of-God, and Solomon -the- 
son-of -David; yet that same unknown 
drunken mortal is author and com- 
piler of three-fourths of Elliot's pomp- 
ous Encyclopedia Britannica, which 
he composed at half-a-guinea a week ! 

The bonny brucket lassie, 

She's blue beneath the een ; 
She was the fairest lassie 

That danced on the green : 
A lad he lo'ed her dearly, 

She did his love return ; 
But he his vows has broken, 

And left her for to mourn. 

" My shape," says she, " was handsome, 

My face was fair and clean ; 
But now I'm bonny brucket, 

And blue beneath the een : 
My eyes were bright and sparkling, 

Before that they turn'd blue ; 
But now they're dull with weeping. 

And a*, my love, for you. 

" Oh, could I live in darkness, 

Or hide me in the sea, 
Since my love is unfaithful. 

And has forsaken me. 
No other love I suflfer'd 

Within my breast to dwell ; 
In nought have I offended, 

But loving him too well.'' 

Her lover heard her mourning. 

As by he chanced to pass ; 
And press'd unto his bosom 

The lovely brucket lass. 
" My dear," said he, " cease grieving ; 

Since that your love is true, 
liy bonny brucket lassie, 

I'll faithful prove to you." 



SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HAB 
BEEN. 

This song is beautiful, — The choru.* 
in particular is truly pathetic. 1 never 
could learn anything of its author. 



Sae merry as we twa hae been, 
Sae merry as we twa hae been ; 

My heart it is like for to break, 
When I think on the days we hae seea* 

A lass that was laden with care 

Sat heavily under a thorn ; 
I listen'd a while for to hear. 

When thus she began for to mourn : 
Whene'er my dear shepherd was there, 

The birds did melodiously sing. 
And cold nipping wmter did wear 

A face that resembled the sprmg. 

Our flocks feeding close by his side, 

He gently pressing my hand, 
I view'd the wide world in its pride. 

And laugh'd at the pomp of command. 
"My dear," he would oft to me say, 

"■ What makes you hard-hearted to me I 
Oh ! why do you thus turn away 

From him who is dying for thee ?" 

But now he is far from my sight. 

Perhaps a deceiver may prove. 
Which makes me lament day and night, 

That ever I granted my love. 
At eve, when the rest of the folk 

Were merrily seated to spin, 
I set myself under an oak. 

And heavily sigh'd for him. 



THE BANKS OF FORTH. 
This air is Oswald's. 

" Here's anither— it's no a Scots tune, but it 
passes for ane— Oswald made it himsel, I 
reckon. He has cheated monv a ane, but he 
canna cheat Wandering Willie. '—Sir Walter 
Scott. 

The following is the song as given in tbo 
Museum : — 

Ye sylvan powers that rule the plain. 
Where sweetly winding Fortha glides, 

Conduct me to those banks again, 
Since there my charming Mary bides. 

Those banks that breathe their vernal sw0et% 
Where every smiling beauty meets ; 
Where Mary's charms adorn the plain, 
And cheer the heart of every swain. 

Oft in the thick embowering groves. 
Where birds their music chirp aloud. 

Alternately we sung our loves. 
And Fortha's fair meanders vi«w'd. 



REMARKS 01^ SCOTTISH SONO. 



m 



The meadows wore a general smile, 
Love was our banquet all the while ; 
The lovely prospect charm'd the eye, 
To where' the ocean met the sky. 

Once on the grassy bank reclined 
Where Forth ran by in murmurs deep, 
. It was my happy chance to find 
The charming Mary lull'd asleep ; 

My heart then leap'd with inward bliss, 
I softly stoop'd, and stole a kiss ; 
She waked, she blush'd, and gently blamed, 
'' Why, Damon ! are you not ashamed ?" 

Ye sylvan powers, ye rural gods, 
To whom we swains our cares impart. 

Restore me to those blest abodes. 
And ease, oh ! ease my love-sick heart I 

Those happy days again restore. 
When Mary and I shall part no more ; 
When she shaU fill these longing arms. 
And crown my bliss with all her charms. 



THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. 
This is another beautiful song of Mr. 
Crawford's composition. In the neigh- 
bourhood of Traquair, tradition still 
shows the old " Bush," which, when I 
saw it in the year 1787, was composed 
of eight or nine ragged birches. The 
Earl of Traquair has planted a clump 
of trees near by, which he calls " The 
new Bush. " 

Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, 
I'll tell how Peggy grieves me ; 

Though thus I languish and complain, 
Alas ! she ne'er believes me. 

My vows and sighs, like silent air, 
. Unheeded never move her ; 

The bonny bush aboon Traquair, 
Was where I first did love her. 

That day she smiled and made me glad, 

No maid seem'd ever kinder ; 
I thought mysel the luckiest lad, 

So sweetly there to find her. 
I tried to soothe my amorous flame 

In words that I thought tender ; 
If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame, 

I meant not to offend her. 

Yet now she scornful flees the plain, 

The fields we then frequented ; 
If e'er we meet, she shows disdain, 

She looks as ne'er acquainted. 
The bonny bush bloom'd fair in May^ 

Its sweets I'll aye remember ; 
But now her frowns make it decay : 

It fades as in December. 



Ye rural powers, who hear my strains, 

Why thus should Peggy grieve me ? 
Oh I make her partner in my pains ; 

Then let her smiles relieve me. 
If not, my love will turn despair, 

My passion no more tender ; 
I'll leave the bush aboon TraquaiTj 

To lonely wilds I'll wander. 



CROMLET'S LILT. 

The following interesting account on" 
this plaintive dirge was communicated 
to Mr. Riddel by Alexander Eraser 
Tytler, Esq., of Woodhouselee: — 

" In the latter end of the 16th cen- 
tury, the Chisholms were proprietors 
of the estate of Cromleck, (now posses- 
sed by the Drummonds.) The eldest 
son of that family was very much at- 
tached to the daughter of Stirling of 
Ardocli, commonly known by the name 
of Fair Helen of Ardoch. 

" At that time the opporti^pities of 
meeting between the sexes were more 
rare, consequently more sought after 
than now; and the Scottish ladies, far 
from priding themselves on extensive 
literature, were thought sufficiently 
book-learned if they could make out 
the Scriptures in their mother tongue. 
Writing was entirely out of the line of 
female education. At that period the 
most of our young men of family 
sought a fortune or found a grave in 
France. Cromleck, when he went 
abroad to the war, was obliged to leave 
the management of his correspondence 
with his mistress to a lay-brother of 
the monastery of Dunblane in the im- 
mediate neighbourhoo'd of Cromleck, 
and near Ardoch, This man unfortu- 
nately, was deeply sensible of Helen's 
charms. He artfully prepossessed her 
with stories to the disadvantage of 
Cromleck; and, by misinterpreting, or 
keeping up the letters and messages in- 
trusted to his care, he entirely irritated 
both. All connection was broken oS. 
betwixt them: Helen was inconsolable, 
and Cromleck has left behind him, in 
the ballad called ' Cromlet's Lilt,' a 
-proof of the elegance of his genius, as 
well as the steadiness of his love. 
"When the artful monk thought tima 



sift 



BURNS' WORKS. 



had sufficiently softened Helen's sor- 
row, he proposed himself as a lover 
Helen was obdurate, but at last, over- 
come by the persuasions of her brother, 
with whom she lived, and who, having a 
family of thirty-one children, was prob- 
ably very well pleased to get her ofE his 
hands — she submitted rather than con 
Sented to the ceremony, but there her 
compliance ended; and, when forcibly 
put into bed, she started quite frantic 
from it, screaming out, that after 
three gentle raps on the wainscoat, at 
the bed-head, she heard Cromleck's 
voice, crying, ' Helen, Helen, mind 
me!' Cromleck soon after coming 
home, the treachery of the confidant 
was discovered — her marriage annulled 
—and Helen became Lady Cromleck. " 
-ZV". B. — Marg Murray, mother to 
these thirty one children, was daughter 
of Murray of Strewn, one of the seven- 
teen sons of Tullybardine, and whose 
youngest son, commonly called the 
Tutor of^Ardoch, died in the year 1715, 
aged 111 years. 

The following^ is a copy of this ballad as it 
appears in the Museum .•— 

Since all thy vows, false maid, 

Are blown to air 

And my poor heart betray'd 

To sad despair* 

Into some wilderness, 

My grief I will express, 

And thy hard-heartedness, 

O cruel fair ! 

Have I not graven our loves 

On every tree 

In yonder spreading groves. 

Though false thou be ? 

Was not a solemn oath 

Plighted betwixt us both— 

Thou thy faith, Ifliy troth- 
Constant to be ? 

Some gloomy place I'll find. 

Some doieful shade, 

Where neither sun nor wind 

E'er entrance had : 

Into that hollow cave, 

There will I sigh and rave. 

Because thou dost behave 

So faithlessly. 

Wild fruit shall be my meat, 

ril drink the spring, 

Cold earth shall be my seat • 

For covermg. 

I'll have the starry sky 

My head to canopy, 

Vntil my soul on high 

Shail spread its wing. 



I'll have no funeral fire. 

Nor tears for me ; 
No grave do I desire 

Nor obsequy. 
The courteous redbreast he 
With leaves will cover me, 
And sing my elegy 

With doleful voice. 

And when a ghost I am 

I'll visit thee, 

O thou deceitful dame, 

Whose cruelty 

Has kill'd the fondest heart 

That e'er felt Cupid's dart. 

And never can desert 

From loving thee 



MY DEARIE, IF THOU DIE. 

Another beautiful song of Craw 
ford's. 

Love never more shall give me pain, 

My fancy's fix'd on thee. 
Nor ever maid my heart shall gain, 

My Peggy, it thou die. 
Tlw beauty doth such pleasure give. 

Thy love's so true to me. 
Without thee I can never live, 

My dearie, if thou die. 

If fate shall tear thee from my breast, 

How shall I lonely stray ? 
In dreary dreams the night I'll waste, 

In sighs, the silent day. 
I ne'er can so much virtue find. 

Nor such perfection see ; 
Then I'll renounce all woman-kind, 

My Peggy, after thee. 

No new-blown beauty fires my heart, 

With Cupid's raving rage ; 
But thine, which can such sweets impartf 

Must all the world engage. 
'Twas this that like the morning surv 

Gave joy and life to me ; 
And when its destined day is done, 

With Peggy let me di?e. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

And in such pleasure share : 
You who Its faithful flames approve. 

With pity view the fair ; 
Restore my Peggy's wonted charms^ 

Those charms so dear to me ! 
Oh ! never rob them from thes« arms I 

I'm lost if Peggy die. 



SHE ROSE AND LET MB IN. 

The old set of this song, which i« 
still to be found in printed collections, 
is much prettier than this ; but some* 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



313 



body, I believe it was Ramsay,* took 
it into bis bead to clear it of some 
seeming indelicacies and made it at 
once more cbaste and more dull. 
The Museum version is as follows :— 

The night her silent sables wore 

And gloomy were the skies, 
Of glittering stars appear'd no more 

Than those in Nelly's eyes. 
When to her father's door I came, 

Where I had often been, 
I begg'd my fair, my lovely dame, 

To rise and let me in. 

But she, with accents all divine, 

Did my fond suit reprove, 
And while she chid my rash design, 

She but inflamed my love. 
Her beauty oft had pleased before, 

While her bright eyes did roll : 
But virtue only had the power 

To charm my very soul. 

Oh, who would cruelly deceive, 

Or from such beauty part ! 
I loved her so, I could not leave 

The charmer of my heart. 
My eager fondness I obey'd, 

Resolved she should be mine. 
Till Hymen to my arms convey d 

My treasure so divme. 



Now happy in my Nelly's love, 

Transporting is my joy, 
Ko greater blessing can I prove, 

So blest a man am I. 
For beauty may a while retain, 

The conquer'd flattering mart, 
But virtue only is the chain 

Holds, never to depart. 



WILL YE GO TO THE EWE- 
BUGHTS,» MARION? 

I AM not sure if this old and charm- 
ing air be of the South, as is commonly 
said, or of the North of Scotland. 
There is a song apparently as ancient 
as " Ewe-bughts, Marion," which sings 
to the same time, and is evidently of the 
North — it begins thus: — 



1 Sheep-folds. 
* " No, no : it was not Ramsay The song 
still remains in his Tea- Table Miscellany^ and 
the Orpheus Caledonius^ and even in Herd's 
Collection, in its primitive state of indelicacy. 
The verses in the Museum were retouched by 
an able and masterly hand, who has thus pre- 
sented us with a song at once chaste and ele- 
gant, without a single idea to crimson the 
cheek of modesty, or cause one pang to the 

innocent Uvart."— SxBNHOvsg. 



The Lord o' Gordon had three dochters, 

Mary, Marget, and Jean, 
They wad na stay at bonny Castle Gordon, 

But awa' to Aberdeen. 

The old ballad begins thus :— 

Will ye go to the ewe-bughts, Marion, 
And wear m the sheep wi' me ? 

The sun shines sweet, my Marion, 
But nae half sae sweet as thee. 

O Marion's a bonny lass. 
And the blithe blink's in her ee , 

And fain wad I marry Marion, 
Gin Marion wad marry me. 



LEWIE GORDON. 
Tnis air is a proof how one of our 
Scotch tunes comes to be composed out 
of another. I have one of the earliest 
copies of the song, and it has prefixed 
— " Tune—' Tarry Woo' "—of which 
tune a different set has insensibly 
varied into a diiTerent air. — To a Scots 
critic, the pathos of the line, 

" Though his back be at the wa\" 

must be very striking. It needs not a 
Jacobite predjudice to be affected with 
this song. 

The supposed author of "Lewie 
Gordon" was a Mr. Geddes, priest at 
Shenval in the Ainzie. 

Oh ! send Lewie Gordon hame, 
And the lad I maunna name ; 
Though his back be at the wa'. 
Here's to him that's far awa' ! 

Oh hon ! my Highland man ! 

Oh, my bonny Highland man ; 

Weel would 1 my true-love ken, 

Amang ten thousand Highland men. 

Oh, to see his tartan trews. 
Bonnet blue, and laigh-heel'd shoes : 
Philabeg aboon his knefe ; 
That's the lad that I'll gangwi 1 
Oh, hon ! &c. 

The princely youth that I do mean 
Is fitted for to be king ; 
On his breast he wears a star. 
You'd take him for the god of war. 
Oh, hon ! &c. 

Oh, to see this princely one 
Seated on a royal throne ! 
Disasters a' would disappear. 
Then begins the Jub'lee year! 
Oh, hon ! &c. 

Lord Lewie Gordon, younger brother to the 
Duke of Gordon, commanded a detachment 
for the Young Chevalier in the affair of 1745-^ 
and acquitted himself with great gallantry 
£^nd judgment, He died id 1754, 



814 



BURNS' WORKS. 



THE WAULKING O' THE FAULD. 

There are two stanzas still sung to 
this tune, which I take to be the 
original song whence Ramsay com- 
posed his beautiful song of that name 
in the Gentle Shepherd. It begins 

" Oh, will ye speak at our town, 
As ye come trae the fauld," &c. 

I regret that, as in many of our old 
songs, the delicacy of this old frag- 
ment is not equal to its wit and hu- 
mour. 

The following is Ramsay's version : — 

My Peggie is a young thing. 

Just enter'd in her teens ; 
Fair as the day, and sweet as May, 
Fair as the day, and always gay, 
My Peggie is a young thing, 

And I'm not very auld ; 
Vet well I like to meet her at 

The waulking o' the fauld. 

My Peggie speaks sae sweetly 

Whene'er we meet alane ; 
I wish nae mair to lay my care, 
I wish nae mair of a' that's rare. 
My Peggie speaks sae sweetly, 

To a the lave I'm cauld ; 
But she gars a' my spirits glow 

At waulking o' the fauld. 

My Peggie smiles sae kindly 

Whene'er I whisper love. 
That I look down on a' the town, 
That I look down upon a crown. 
My Peggie smiles sae kindly. 

It makes me blithe and bauld ; 
And naething gies me sic delight 

As waulking o' the fauld. 

My Peggie sings sae saftly 

When on my pipe I play ; 
By a' the rest it is confess'd. 
By a' the rest that she sings best : 
My Peggy sings sae saftly, 

And in her sangs are tauld. 
With innocence, the wale o' sense, 

At waulking o' the fauld. 



OH ONO CHRIO.* 

Dr. Blacklock informed me that 
this song was composed on the infamous 
massacre at Glencoe. 

Oh ! was not I a weary wight ! 
Maid, wife and widow in one night ! 
When in my soft and yielding arms, [harms, 
Oh ! when most I thought him free from 



Even at the dead time of the night 

They broke my bower, and slew my knight. 

Wiih ae lock of his jet-black hair 

I'll tie my heart for evermair ; 

Nae sly-tongued youth, nor flattering swain. 

Shall e'er untie this knot again ; 

Thine still, dear youth, that heart shall be, 

Nor pant for aught save heaven and thee. 



I'LL NE7ER LEAVE THEE. 

This is another of Crawford's songs, 
but I do not think in his happiest man- 
ner. What an absurdity to join such 
names as Adonis and Mary together 1 

One day I heard Mary say, 

How shall I leave thee ; 
Stay, dearest Adonis, stay. 

Why wilt thou grieve me ? 



J 



CORN-RIGS ARE BONNY. 

All the old words that ever I couid 
meet to this air were the following, 
which seem to have been an old 
chorus : — 

Oh, corn- ngs and rye-rigs. 

Oh, corn-rigs are bonny ; 
And, where'er you meet a bonny lass. 

Preen up her cockernony. 



* A vitiated pronunciation of " Ochoin och 
rzy—a. Gaelic exclamation expressive of deep 



Iprrow and s^ictjoi), 



BIDE YE YET. 

There is a beautiful song to thia 
tune, beginning, 

" Alas ! my son, you little know," 

which is the composition of MibB 
Jenny Graham, of Dumfries. 

Alas ! my son, you little know 

The sorrows that from wedlock flow • 

Farewell to every day of ease 

When you have got a wife to please. - 

Sae bide ye yet, and bide ye yet. 
Ye little ken what's to betide ye yet 
The half o' that will gane ye yet, 
Gif a wayward wife obtain ye yet. 

Your hopes are high, your wisdom small, 
Woe has not had you in its thrall ; 
The black cow on your foot ne'er trod. 
Which gars you sing along the road. 
Sae bide ye yet, &c. 

Sometimes the rock, sometimes the reel, 
Or some piece of the spinning-wheel. 
She'll drive at you, my bonny chiel. 
And send you headlang to the deil, 
Sae t)ide ye yet, 4^9, 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



315 



When I, like you, was young and free, 
I valued not the proudest she ; 
Like you, my boast was bold and vain, 
That men alone were born to reign. 
Sae bide ye yet, &c. 

Great Hercules, and Samson too. 
Were stronger far than I or you ; 
Yet they were jaffled by their dears, 
And lelt the distaff and the shears. 
Sae bide ye yet, &c. 

Stout gates of brass and well-built walls 
Are proof 'gainst swords and cannon balls ; 
But nought is found, by sea or land. 
That can a wayward wife withstand. 
Sae bide ye yet, &c. 



Here the remarks on the first vol- 
ume of the Musical Museum conclude: 
the second volume has the following 
preface from the pen of Burns: — 

" In the first volume of this work, 
two or three airs, not of Scots com- 
position, have been inadvertently in- 
serted; which, whatever excellence 
they may have, was improper, as the 
collection is solely to be the music of 
our own country. The songs con- 
tained in this volume, both music and 
poetry, are all of them the work of 
Scotsmen. Wherever the old words 
could be recovered, they had been pre- 
ferred . both as suiting better the genius 
of the tunes, and to preserve the pro- 
ductions of those earlier sons of the 
Scottish muses, some of whose names 
deserved a better fate than has be- 
fallen tjiem, — 'Buried 'midst the wreck 
of things which were.' Of our more 
modern songs, the editor has inserted 
the author's names as far as he can 
ascertain • them; and as that was 
neglected in the first volume, it is an- 
nexed here. If he have made any 
mistakes in this affair, which he possi- 
bly may, he will be very grateful at 
being set right. 

" Ignorance and prejudice may per- 
haps affect to sneer at the simplicity of 
the poetry or music of some of these 
poems; but their having been for ages 
the favourites of nature's judges — the 
common people — was to the editor a 
SuflScient test of their merit. 

'* EoiNBURGH, March i, 1778," 



TRANENT MUIR. 

" TuANENT Muir" was composed 
by a Mr. Skirving, a very worthy, re- 
spectable farmer, near Haddington,* 
I have heard the anecdote often, that 
Lieut. Smith, whom he mentions in the 
ninth stanza, came to Haddington after 
the publication of the song, and sent a 
challenge to Skirving to meet him at 
Haddington, and answer for the un- 
worthy manner in which he had noticed 
him in his song. " Gang away back," 
said the honest farmer, "and tell Mr. 
Smith that I hae nae leisure to come to 
Haddington; but tell him to come here, 
and I'll tak a look o' him, and if he 
think I'm fit to fecht him, I'll fecht 
him; and if no, I'll do ab he did — rU 
rin men'/" 

Stanza ninth, as well as tenth, to which the 
anecdote refers, shows that the anger of the 
lieutenant was anything but unreasonable. 

And Major Bowie, that worthy soul, 

Was brought down to the ground, man ; 
His horse being shot, it was his lot 

For to get many a wound, man : 
Lieutenant Smithy of Irish birth, 

Frae whom he called for aid, man. 
Being full of dread, lap o'er his head, 

And wadna be gainsay 'd, man ! 

He made sic haste, sae spurr'd his baist, 

'Twas little there he saw, man ; 
To Berwick rade, and falsely said 

The Scots were rebels a', man : 
But let that end, for well 'tis kenn'd. 

His use and wont to lie, man ; 
The teague is naught, he never faught 

When he had room to flee, man. 



POLWARTf ON THE GREEN. 

The author of "Pol wart on the 
Green" is Capt. John Drummond 
M'Gregor, of the family of Bochaldie.| 

At Pol wart on the green, 
If you'll meet me the mom, 



* Mr. Skirving was tenant of East Garletbn, 
about a mile and a half to the north of Had- 
dington. 

t " Polwart is a pleasant village situate 
near Dunse, in Berwickshire. In the middle 
of the village stand two venerable thomfs, 
round which the Polwart maidens, when they 
became brides, danced with their partners on 
the day of the bridal."— Cunningham. 

X The poet Is in error here. The best au- 
thorities agree in ascribing the authorship o| 
Uie song to Allan Ramsay. 



816 



BtTRNS' WORKS. 



Where lasses do conveen 
To dance about the thorn, 

A kindly welcome ye shall meet 
Frae her wha likes to view 

A lover and a lad complete — 
The lad and lover you. 

Let dorty dames say na 

As lang as e'er they please. 
Seem caulder than the snaw. 

While inwardly they bleeze. 
But I will frankly shawmy mind, 

And yield my heart to thee ; 
Be ever to the captive kind 

That langs na to be free. 

At Pol wart on the green, 

Amang the new-mown hay. 
With sangs and dancing keen 

We'll pass the heartsome day. 
At night, if beds be o'er thrang laid, 

And thou be twined of thine, 
Thou shalt be welcome, my dear lad, 

To take a part of mine. 



STREPHON AND LYDIA. 

The following account of this song 
I had from Dr. Black lock: — 

The Strephon and Lydia mentioned 
in the song were perhaps the loveliest 
couple of their time. The gentleman 
was commonly known by the name of 
Beau Gibson. The lady was the "Gentle 
Jean," celebrated somewhere in 
Hamilton of Bangour's poems. — Hav- 
ing frequently met at public places, they 
had formed a reciprocal attachment, 
which their friends thought dangerous, 
as their resources were by no means 
adequate to their tastes and habits of 
life. To elude the bad consequences 
of such a connection, Strephon was sent 
abroad with a commission, and perished 
in Admiral Vernon's expedition to Car- 
thagena. 

The author of the song was William 
Wallace, Esq., of Cairnhill, in Ayr- 
shire. 

All lonely on the sultry beach, 

Expiring, Strephon lay ; 
No hand the cordial draught to reach, 

Nor cheer the gloomy way. 
Ill-fated youth ! no parent nigh 

To catch thy fleeting breath, 
No bride to fix thy swimming eye. 

Or smooth the face of death ! 

Far distant from the mournful sceue 

Thy parents sit at ease ; 
Thy Lydia rifles all the plain, 

And all ihe spring, tc please. 



Ill-fated youth ! by fault of friend, 
Not force of foe, depress'd. 

Thou fall'st, alas ! thyself, thy kind. 
Thy country, unredress'd 1 



MY JO, JANET. 

OP THE "MUSEUM." 

Johnson, the publisher, with a 
foolish delicacy, refused to insert th« 
last stanza of this humorous ballad. 

Oh, sweet sir, for your courtesie. 

When ye come by the Bass then. 
For the love ye bear to me, 

Buy me a keeking-glass then. 
Keek into the draw-well, 

Janet, Janet ; 
And there ye'U see your bonny sel', 
My jo, Janet. 

Keeking in the draw-well clear. 

What if I should fa' in then ; 
Syne a' my kin will say and swear 

I drown'd mysel' for sin, then. 
Haud the better by the brae, 

Janet, Janet ! 
Haud the better by the brae. 

My jo, Janet. 

Good sir, for your courtesie, 

Coming through Aberdeen then, 
For the love ye bear to me. 

Buy me a pair of sheen then. 
Clout the auld, the new are dear, 
Janet, Janet ; 
A pair may gain ye half a year, 
My jo, Janet. 

But what, if dancing on the green. 

And skipping like a maukin. 
If they should see my clouted sheei^ 

Of me they will be talkin'. 
Dance aye laigh, and late at e'en, 
Janet, Janet ; 
Syne a' their fauts will no be seen. 
My jo, Jantyt. 

Kind sir, for your courtesie, 

When ye gae to the cross then. 
For the love ye bear to me, 

Buy me a pacing horse then. 
Pace upo' your spinning-wheel, 

Janet, Janet ; 
Pace upo' your spinning-wheel. 
My jo, Janet. 

My spinning-wheel is auld and stifl^ 

The rock o't winna stand, sir ; 
To keep the temper-pin in tiff 

Employs right aft my hand, sir . 
Mak the best o' that ye can, 

Janet, Janet; 
But like it never wale a man, 

My jo, Jamett 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONO. 



31f 



LOVE IS THE CAUSE OF MY 
MOURNING. 

The words by a Mr. R. Scott, from 
the town or neiglibourliood of Biggar. 

The first stanza of this fine song is as fol- 
lows : — 
Bv a murmuring stream a fair shepherdess 

Be so ^nd, O ye nymphs, I oft heard her say, 
Tell Strephon I die, if he passes this way, 
And love is the cause of my mourning. 
False shepherds, that tell me of beauty and 
charms, , ,^ , [warms, 

Deceive me, for Strephon's cold heart never 
Yet bring me this Strephon, I'll die in his 
arms ; 
O Strephon ! the cause of my mourning. 
But first, said she, let me go 
Down to the shades below, 
Ere ye let Strephon know 
That I have loved him so : 
Then on my pale cheek no blushes will show 
That love is the cause of my mourning. 



FIFE, AND A' THE LANDS ABOUT 
IT. 
This song is Dr. Blacklock's. He, as 
Well as I, often gave Johnston verses, 
trifling enough, perhaps, but they serv- 
ed as a vehicle to the music. 

Allan, by his grief excited. 

Long the victim of despair. 
Thus deplored his passion slighted, 

Thus address'd the scornful fair : 
• Fife, and all the lands about it, 

Undesiring, I can see ; 
Toy may crown my days without it, 

Not, my charmer, without thee. 

•* Must I then forever languish. 

Still complaining, still endure ? 
Can her form create an anguish 

Which her soul disdains to cure? 
*. Why, by hopeless passion fated. 

Must I still those eyes admire. 
Whilst unheeded, unregretted, 

In her presence I expire ? 

" Would thy charms improve their power, 

Timely think, relentless maid ; 
Beauty is a short-lived flower. 

Destined but to bloom and fade ! 
Let that heaven, whose kind impression 

All thy lovely features show. 
Melt thy soul to soft compassion 

For a suflering lover's woe." 



that this song was the composition of 
Lady Grisel Baillie, daughter of the first 
Earl of Marchmont, and wife of George 
Baillie of Jerviswood. 

There was ance a may, and she lo'd na men, 
She biggit her bonny bower down in yon glen ; 
But now she cries dool ! and ah, well-a-day I 
Come down the green gate, and come here 
away. 

When bonny young Johnny came o'er the sea. 
He said he saw naething sae lovely as me ; 
He hecht me baith rings and mony braw 

things ; 
And warena my heart light I wad die. 

He had a wee titty that lo'd na me. 

Because I was twice as bonny as she : 

She raised such a pother 'twixt him and his 

mother. 
That werena my heart light I wad die. 

The day it was set, and the bridal to be. 
The wife took a dwam, and laid down to die ; 
She main'd and she grain'd, out of dolour and 

pain. 
Till he vow'd he never wad see me again. 

His kin was for ane of a higher degree. 
Said, What had he to do with the like of me ? 
Albeit I was bonny, I wasna for Johnny 
And werena my heart light I wad die. 

They said I had neither cow nor caff. 
Nor dribbles of drink rins through the draff. 
Nor pickles of meal rins through the mill-ee , 
And werena my heart light I wad die. 

His titty she was baith wily and slee, 
She spied me as I came o'er thee lee ; 
And then she ran in, and made a loud din, 
Believe your ain een, an ye trow na me. 

His bonnet stood ance fu' round on his brow. 
His auld ane looks aye as weel as some's new ; 
But now he lets't wear ony gate it will hing. 
And casts himself dowie upon the corn-bing. 

And now he gaes drooping about the dykes. 
And a' he dow do is to hund the tykes : 
The live-lang night he ne'er steeks his ee, 
And werena my heart light I wad die. 

Were I young for thee, as I ance hae been, 
We should hae been galloping down on yo« 

green. 
And linking it on the lily-white lee ; 
And wow gin I were but young for thee ! 



WERENA 



MY HEART 
WAD DIE. 



LIGHT I 



Lord Hailes. in the notes to his 
Collection of ancient Scots poems, says 



THE YOUNG MAN'S DREAM. 
This song is the composition of Bal- 
loon Tytler, mentioned at p. 31°. 

One night I dream'd I lay most easy. 

By a murmuring river side, 
Where lovely banks were spread with daisies^ 

And the streanos did smoothly glide ; 



S18 



BURNS' WORKS. 



While around me, and quite over. 
Spreading branches were display'd, 

All interwoven in due order, 
Soon became a pleasant shade. 

I saw my lass come in most charming, 

With a look and air so sweet ; 
Every grace was most alarming. 

Every beauty most complete. 
Cupid with his bow attended ; 

Lovely Venus too was there : 
As his bow young Cupid bended. 

Far away flew carking care. 

On a bank of roses seated. 

Charming my true-love sung ; 
While glad echo still repeated, 

And the hills and valleys rung 
At the last, by sleep oppress'd 

On the bank my love did lie, 
By young Cupid still caress'd, 

While the graces round did fly. 

The rose's red, the lily's blossom. 

With her charms might not compare. 
To view her cheeks and heaving bosom, 

Down they droop'd as in despair. 
On her slumber I encroaching. 

Panting came to steal a kiss : 
Cupid smiled at me approaching, 

Seem'd to say, " There's nought amiss." 

With eager wishes I drew nigher. 

This fair maiden to embrace : 
My breath grew quick, my pulse beat higher. 

Gazing on her lovely face. 



The nymph, awaking, quickly check'd me. 

Starting up, with angry tone ; 
** Thus," says she, " do you respect me ? 

Leave me quick, and hence begone." 
Cupid for me interposing, 

To my love did bow full low j 
She from him her hands unloosing. 

In contempt struck down his bow. 

Angry Cupid from her flying. 

Cried out, as he sought the skies, 
" Haughty nymphs, their love denying, 

Cupid ever shall despise." 
As he spoke, old care came wandering, 

With him stalk'd destructive Time ; 
Winter froze the streams meandering. 

Nipt the roses in their prime. 

Spectres then my love surrounded. 

At their back march'd chilling Death. 
Whilst she, frighted and confounded. 

Felt their blasting, pois'nous breath; 
As her charms were swift decaying. 

And the furrows seized her cheek ; 
Forbear, ye fiends ! I vainly crying, 

Waked in the attempt to speak. 



THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. 
Dr. BLACKLOCKtold me that Smollett 
who wa.s at the bottom a great Jacob- 



ite, composed these beautiful aud ^'■ 
pathetic verses ou the infamous depr t. 
dations of the Duke of Cumberlai <i 
after the battle of Culloden. 

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn. 
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn ! 
Thy sons for valour long renown'd. 
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground : 
Thy hospitable roofs no more 
Invite the stranger to the door ; 
In smoky ruins sunk they lie, 
The monuments of cruelty. 

The wretched owner sees, afar, 
His all become the prey of war ; 
Bethinks him of his babes and wife, 
Then smites his breast, and curses life. 
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks 
Where once they fed their wanton flocks : 
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain ; 
Thy infants perish on the plain. 

What boots it then, in every clime, 
Through the wide-spreading waste of time [ 
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, 
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze : 
Thy towering spirit now is broke. 
Thy neck is bended to the yoke : 
What foreign arms could never quell 
By civil rage and rancour fell. 

The rural pipe and merry lay 
No more shall cheer the happy day : 
No social scenes of gay delight 
Beguile the dreary winter night : 
No strains, but those of sorrow, flow. 
And nought be heard but sounds of woe : 
While the pale phantoms of the slain 
Glide nightly o er the silent plain. 



Oh ! baneful cause— oh ! fatal mori\ 
Accursed to ages yet unboi-n ! 
The sons against their father stood • 
The parent shed his children's blood ! 
Yet, when the rage of battle ceased. 
The victor's soul was not appeased ; 
The naked and forlorn must feel 
Devouring flames and murdering steeL 

The pious mother, doom'd to death. 

Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath. 

The bleak wind whistles round her head. 

Her helpless orphans cry for bread ; 

Bereft of shelter, food, and friend. 

She views the shades of night descend ; 

And, stretch'd beneath the inclement jkie^ 

Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. 

Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins. 
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns. 
Resentment of my country's fate 
Within my filial breast shall beat ; 
And, spite of her insulting foe, 
My sympathising verse shall flow : 
Mourn, napless Caledonia, mouf n 
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels tonil 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



319 



AH! THE POOR SHEPHERD'S 
MOURNFUL FATE.* 

Tune—'' Galashiels." 

The old title, " Sour Plums o' Gal- 
ashiels," probably was the beginning 
of a song to this air, which is now lost. 

The tune of Galashiels was com- 
posed about the beginning of the pres- 
ent century by the Laird of Galashiels' 
piper. 

Ah ! the poor shepherd's mournful fate, 

When doom'd to love and languish, 
To bear the scornful fair one's hate. 

Nor dare disclose his anguish ! 
Yet eager looks and dying sighs 

My secret soul discover ; 
While rapture trembling through mine eyes. 

Reveals how much I love her. 
The tender glance, the redd'ning cheek, 

O'erspreaa with rising blushes, 
A thousand various ways they speak, 

A thousand various wishes. 

For oh ! that form so heavenly fair, 

Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling. 
That artless blush and modest air. 

So fatally beguiling ! 
The every look and every grace 

So charm whene'er I view thee, 
Till death o'ertake me in the chase. 

Still will my hopes pursue thee : 
Then when my tedious hours are past, 

Be this last blessing given. 
Low at thy feet to breathe my last, 

And die in sight of heaven. 



MILL, MILL, O. 

The original, or at least a song evi- 
dently prior to Ramsay's, is still extant. 
It runs thus: — 

As I cam down yon waterside, 

And by yon shellin-hill, O, 
There I spied a bonny, bonny lass, 

And a lass that 1 loved right weel, O. 

CHORUS. 

The mill, mill, O, and the kill, kill, O, 
And the coggin o' Peggy's wheel, O, 

The sack and the sieve, and a' she did 
leave. 
And danced the miller's reel, O. 



WALY, WALY. 

Tn the west country I have heard a 
different edition of the second stanza. 

* William Hamilton of Bangour, an amiable 
and accomplished gentleman, and one of our 

sweetest lyric poets, was the author of this 
6on|f, 



Instead of the four lines, beginning 
with. "When cockle-shells," &c., the 
other way ran thus: — 

Oh, wherefore need I busk my head, 
Or wherefore need I kame my hair. 

Sin my fause luve has me forsook, 
And says he'll never luve me main 

Oh, waly, waly, up yon bank. 

And waly, waly, down yon brae, | 

And waly by yon burn side, I 

Where I and my love were wont to gae I 
Oh, waly, waly, love is bonny 

A little while, when it is new ; 
But when it's auld it waxeth cauld. 

And fades away like morning dew. 

When cockle shells turn siller bells. 

And mussels grow on every tree. 
When frost and snaw shall warm us a'. 

Then shall my love prove true to me. 
I leant my back unto an aik, 

I thought it was a trustie tree ; 
But first it bow'd, and syne it brake, 

And sae did my fause love to me. 

Now Arther Seat shall be my bed. 
The sheets shall ne'er be filed by me"? 

Saint Anton's well shall be my drink. 
Since my true love's forsaken me. 

O Mart'mas wind, whan wilt thou blaw, 
And shake the green leaves aff the tree I 

gentle death, whan wilt thou cum, 
And tak a life that wearies me ? 

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell. 

Nor blawing snaw's inclemcncife F 
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, 

But my love's heart grown cauld to me» 
When we cam in by Glasgow town, 

We were a comely sight to see ; 
My love was clad in velvet black, 

And I mysel in cramasie. 

But had I wist before I kisst. 
That love had been sae ill to win, 

1 had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, 
And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. 

Oh, oh ! if my young babe were bom. 
And set upon the nurse's knee, 

And 1 mysel were dead and gone ; 
For a maid again I'll never be. 



DUNCAN GRAY. 

Dr.Blacklock informed me that he 
had often heard the tradition tliat this 
air was composed by a carman Iq 
Glasgow. 



DUMBARTON DRUMS. 

This is the last of the West High- 
land airs; and from it, over the \yhol« 
tract of couutry tQ \\\q oQofines o{ 



820 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Tweed-side, there is hardly a tune or 
song that one can say has taken its 
origin from any place or transaction in 
that part of Scotland. — The oldest Ayr- 
shire reel is Stewarton Lasses, which 
was made by the father of the present 
Sir Walter Montgomery Cunningham, 
alias Lord Lysle, since which period 
tliere has indeed been local music in 
fiiat country in great plenty. — Johnnie 
Faa is the only old song which I could 
ever trace as belonging to the extensive 
county of Ayr. 

Dumbarton's drums beat bonny, O, 

When they mind me of my dear Johnnie, O, 

How happy am I 

When my soldier is by. 
While he kisses and blesses his Annie, O, 
'Tis a soldier alone can delight me, O, 
For his graceful looks do unite me, O ; 

While guarded in his arms, 

I'll fear no vyar's alarms, [O, 

Neither danger nor death shall e'er fright me. 

My love is a handsome laddie, O, 
Genteel, but ne'er foppish or gaudy, O 

Though commissions are dear. 

Yet I'll buy him one this year, 
For he shall serve no longer a caddie, O ; 
A soldier has honour and bravery, O, [O, 

Unacquainted with rogues and their knavery. 

He minds no other thing. 

But the ladies or the King, 
For every other care is but slavery, O. 

Then I'll be the captain's lady ; O, 
Farewell all my friends and my daddy, O ; 

I'll wait no more at home. 

But I'll follow with the drum. 
And whene'er that beats I'll be ready, O, 
Dumbarton drums sound bonny, O, 
They are sprightly like my dear Johnnie, O ; 

How happy shall I be. 

When on my soldier's knee, 
A^nd he kisses and blesses his Annie, O ! 



CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. 

This song is by the Duke of Gordon. 
The old verses are. 

There's cauld kail in Aberdeen. 

And castocks in Strathbogie ; 
When ilka lad maun hae his lass. 

Then fye gie me my coggie. 
There's Johnnie Smith has got a wife, 

That scrimps him o' his coggiev 
If she were mine, upon my life 

I wad douk her in a boggie. 

CHORUS. 

My coggie, sirs, my coggie, sirs, 

I cannot want my coggie : 
I wadna gie my three-girt cap 

For e'er a (juean in Bogie, 



" The ' Cauld Kail' of his Grace of Gordon," 
says Cunningham, " has long been a favour- 
ite in the north, and deservedly so, for it is 
full of life and manners. It is almost needless 
to say that kail is colewort, and much used in 
broth : that castocks are the stalks of a com- 
mon cabbage ; and that coggie is a wooden 
dish for holding porridge : it is also a drinking 
vessel." 

There's cauld kail in Aberdeen, 

And castocks in Stra'bogie ; 
Gin I but hae a bonny lass, I 

Ye're welcome to your coggie ; i 

And ye may sit up a' the night. 

And drink till it be braid day-light— 
Gie me a lass baith clean and tight. 

To dance the Reel o' Bogie. 

In cotillons the French excel ; 

John Bull loves country-dances ; 
The Spaniards dance fandangos well ; 

Mynheer an allemande prances : 
In foursome reels the Scots delight. 

At threesome they dance wondrous lighti 
But twasome ding a' out o' sight, 

Danced to the Keel o' Bogie. 

Come, lads, and view your partners well, 

Wale each a blithesome rogie ; 
I'll tak this lassie to mysel, 

She looks sae keen and vogie ! 
Now, piper lad, bang up the spring: 

The country ifashion is the thing. 
To prie their mous e'er we begin 

To dance the Reel o' Bogie. 

Now ilka lad has got a lass. 

Save yon auld doited fogie ; 
And ta'en a fling upo' the grass, 

As they do in Stra'bogie ; 
But a' the lasses look sae fain, 

We canna think oursels to hain. 
For they maun hae their come-again ; 

To dance the Reel o' Bogie. 

Now a' the lads hae done their best, 

Like true men o' Stra'bogie ; 
We'll stop a while and tak a rest. 

And tipple out a coggie. 
Come now, my lads, and tak your glass. 

And try ilk other to surpass. 
In wishing health to eveiy lass, i 

To dance the Reel o' Bogie. | 



FOR LACK OP GOLD. 

The country girls in Aj^rshire, i»} 
stead of the line — 



say, 



She me forsook for a great duke,' 



'For Athole's duke she me forsook :** 



which I take to be the original reading:, 
ThkJ song was written by the late Dr. 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



82t 



Austin,* physician at Edinburgh. — He 
had courted a lady, to whom he was 
shortly to have been married; but the 
Duke of Athole, having seen her, be- 
came so much in love with her, that he 
made proposals of marriage, which 
were accepted of, and she jilted the 
doctor. 

For lack of gold she's left me, oW ! 
And of all that's dear bereft me, oh ! 
For Athole's duke, she me forsook, 

And to endless care has left me, oh! 
A star and garter have more art 
Than youth, a true and faithful heart, 
For empty titles we must part. 

And for glitt'ring show she's left me, oh ! 

No cruel fair shall ever move 
My injured heart again to love. 
Through distant climates I must rove. 

Since Jeanie she has left me, oh ! 
Ye powers above, I to your care 
Resign my faithless lovely fair. 
Your choicest blessings be her share. 

Though she's forever left me, oh ! 



HERE'S A HEALTH TO MY TRUE 
LOVE, &c. 

This song is Dr. Blacklock's. He 
told me that tradition gives the air to 
our James IV. of Scotland. 

To me what are riches encumber'd with care ! 
To me what is pomp's insignificant glare ! 
No minion of fortune, no pageant of state. 
Shall ever induce me to envy his fate. 

Their personal graces let fops idolize, 
Whose life is but death in a splendid disguise ; 
But soon the pale tyrant his right shall re- 
sume. 
And all their false lustre be hid in the tomb. 

i.et the meteor discovery attract the fond 

sage. 
In fruitless researches for life to engage ; 
Content with my portion, the rest I forego, 
Nor labour to gain disappointment and woe. 

Contemptibly fond of contemptible self, 
While raisers their wishes concentre in pelf : 
Let the godlike delight of imparting be mine. 
Enjoyment reflected is pleasure divine. 



♦ "The doctor gave his woes an airing in 
song, and then married a very agreeable and 
beautiful lady, by whom he had a numerous 
family. Nor did Jean Drummond, of Meg- 
ginch, break her heart when James, Duke of 
Athole, died: she dried her tears, and gave 
hv hand to Lord Adam Gordon. The song 

i§ creditable to tUe author,"— Ct/NNiNcntVM. 



Extensive dominion and absolute power. 
May tickle ambition, perhaps for an hour ; 
But power in possession soon loses itscharms. 
While conscience remonstrates, and tecro* 
alarms. 

With vigour, oh, teach me, kind Heaven, to 

sustain 
Those ills which in life to be suffer'd remain*. 
Ana when 'tis allow'd me the goal to descry, 
For my species I lived, for myself let me die. 



HEY TUTTI TAITi 

1 HAVE met the tradition universally 
over Scotland, and particularly about 
Stirling, in the neighbourhood of the 
scene, that this air was Robert Bruce'a 
march at the Battle of Bannockburn. 



TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT 
YE. 

A PAKT of this old song, according 
to the English set of it, iS quoted ia 
Shakespeare. 

In winter when the rain rain'd cauld. 

And frost and snaw on ilka hill. 
And Boreas, with his blasts sae bauld. 

Was threat'ning a' our kye to kill : 
Then Bell my wife, wha loves na strife, 

She said to me right hastii);, ^ 
Get up goodman, save Cromie's hi». 

And tak your auld cloak about ye. 

My Cromie is a useful cow. 

And she is come of a good kyne ; 
Aft has she wet the bairns, mou, 

And I am laith that she should tyne. 
Get up, goodman, it is fu' time. 

The sun shines in the hft sae hiCr, 
Sloth never made a gracious end. 

Go tak your auld cloak about ye. 

My cloak was ance a good gray cloak. 

When it was fitting for my wear."; 
But now it's scantly worth a groat,, 

For I have worn't this thirty year- 
Let's spend the gear that we have won. 

We little ken the day we'll die . 
Then I'll be proud since I have ?=woro 

"To have a new cloak about me. 

In days when our King Robert rang 

His trews they cost but half a crown; 
He said they were a groat o'er dear, 

And call'd the tailor thief and louu 
He was the l;ing that wore a crowr». 

And thou the man of laigh degree, 
'Tis pride puts a' the country down, 

Sae tak thy auld cloak about thee. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



YE GODS, WAS STREPHON'S 
PICTURE BLEST ?* 
Tune—" Fourteenth of October." 
The title of this air shows that it al- 
ludes to the famous King Crispian, the 
patron of the honourable corporation 
of shoemakers. St Crispian's day falls 
on the 14th of October, old style, as the 
old proverb tells: — 

"On the fourteenth of October, 
Was ne'er a sutor* sober." 

Ye gods, was Strephon's picture blest 
With the fair heaven of Chloe's breast ? 
Move softer, thou fond fiutt'ring heart, 
Oh, gently throb, too fierce thou art. 
Tell me, thou brightest of thy kind, 
For Strephon was the bliss design'd ? 
For Strephon's sake, dear charming maid, 
Didst thou prefer his wand 'ring shade ? 

And thou bless'd shade that sweetly art 
Lodged so near my Chloe's heart, 
For me the tender hour improve, 
And softly tell how dear I love. 
Ungrateful thing ! itscorns to hear 
Its wretched master's ardent prayer, 
Ingrossing all that beauteous heaven 
That Chloe, lavish maid, has given. 

I cannot blame thee : were I lord 

Of all the wealth these breasts afford ; 

I'd be a miser too, nor give 

An alms to keep a god alive. 

Oh ! smile not thus, my lovely fair, 

On these cold looks that lifeless are : 

Prize him whose bosom glows with fire 

With eager love and soft desire. 

'Tis true thy charms, O powerful maid ! 
To life can bring the silent shade ; 
Thou canst surpass the painter's art. 
And real warmth and flames impart. 
But, oh ! it ne'er can love like me, 
I ever loved, and loved but thee ; 
Then, charmer, grant my fond request ; 
Say, thou canst love, and make me blest. 



SINCE ROBB'D OF ALL THAT 
CHARM'D MY VIEW. 

The old name of this air is " The 
Blossom o* the Raspberry." The song 
is Dr. Blacklock's. 



* Shoemaker. 
♦This song was composed by Hamilton of 
Bangour on bearing that a young lady of 
beauty and rank wore his picture ia her 
bosom. 



As the song is a long one, we can only girs 
the first and last verses :— 

Since robb'd of all that charmed my view 

Of all my soul e'er fancied fair. 
Ye smiling native scenes adieu. 

With each delightful object there ! 
Oh ! when my heart revolves the joys 

Which in your sweet recess I knew. 
The last dread shock, which life destroys, 

Is heaven compared with losing you I 

Ah me ! had Heaven and she proved kind j 

Then full of age, and free from care, i 

How blest had I my life resigned, ' 

Where first I breathed this vital air: 
But since no flatt'nng hope remains, 

Let me my wretched lot pursue ; 
Adieu ! dear friends and native scenesV 

To all but grief and love, adieu ! 



YOUNG DAMON. 

Tune—" Highland Lamentation." 
This air is by Oswald.* 

Amidst a rosy bank of flowers 

Young Damon mourn'd his forlorn fate 
In sighs he spent his languid hours. 

And breathed his woes in lonely state ; 
Gay joy no more shall ease his mind. 

No wanton sports can soothe his care. 
Since sweet Amanda proved unkind. 

And left him full of black despair. 

His looks, that were as fresh as mom, 

Can now no longer smiles impart ; 
His pensive soul on sadness borne. 

Is rack'd and torn by Cupid's dart ; 
Turn, fair Amanda, cheer your swain, 

Unshroud him from this vale of woe ; 
Range every charm to soothe the pain 

That in his tortured breast doth grow. 



KIRK WAD LET ME BE. 

Tradition in the western parts ^if 
Scotland tells that this old song, of 
which there are still three stanzas ex. 
tant, once saved a covenanting clergy- 
man out of a scrape. It was a little prior 
to the Revolution — a period when being 
a Scots covenanter was being a felon — 
that one of their clergy, who was at 
that very time hunted by the merciless 
soldiery, fell in by accident with a party 
of the military. The soldiers were not 
exactly acquainted with the person of 
the reverend gentleman of whom they 
were in search; but from suspicious 



♦The words are by Fergussoo- 



nEMARltS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



circumstances, tliej fancied that they 
had got one of that cloth and oppro- 
bious persuasion among them in the 
person of tins stranger. "Mass J >hn," 
to extricate himself, assumed a freedom 
of manners very unlike the gloomy 
strictnessof his sect: and, among other 
convivial exhibitions, sung (and, some 
traditions say, composed on the spur 
of the occasion) " Kirk wad let me be," 
with such effect, that the soldiers 

swore he was a d d honest fellow, 

and that it was impossible he could 
belong to those hellish conventicles; 
and so gave him his liberty. 

The first stanza of this song, a little al- 
tered, is a favourite kind of dramatic in- 
terlude acted at country weddings in the 
Bouth-west parts of the kingdom, A 
young fellow is dressed up like an old 
beggar; a peruke, commonly made of 
carded tow, represents hoary locks; an 
old bonnet; a ragged plaid, or surtout, 
bound with a straw rope for a girdle; 
a pair of old shoes, with straw ropes 
twisted round his ankles, as is done by 
shepherds in snowy weather: his face 
they disguise as like wretched old age 
as they can : in this plight he is brought 
into the wedding house, frequently to 
the astonishment of strangers, who are 
not in the secret, and begins to sing — 

" Oh, I am a silly auld man, 
My name it is auld Glenae,"* &c. 

He is asked to drink, and by and by 
to dance, which, after some uncouth 
excuses, he is prevailed on to do, the 
'fiddler playing the tune, which here is 
commonly called " Auld Glenae;" in 
short, he is all the time so plied with 
liquor that he is understood to get in- 
toxicated, and, with all the ridiculous 
gesticulations of an old drunken beg- 
gar, he dances and staggers until he 
falls on the floor; yet still, in all his 
riot, nay, in his rolling and tumbling on 
the floor, with some or other drunken 
motion of his body, he beats time to 
the music, till at last he is supposed to 
be carried out dead drunk. 

* Glenae, on the small river Ae,in Annan- 
dale ; the seat and designation of an ancient 
branch, and the present representative, of the 
jallant but unfortunate Dalzels of Carnwath. 
wXbis is the Author' i note. 



There are many Tersions of this Nithsdale 
song ; one i. f the least objectionable is as fol- 
lows : — 

I AM a silly puir man, 

Gaun hirplin owre a tree ; 
For courting a lass in the dark 

The kirk came haunting me. 
If a' my rags were off. 

And nought but hale claeson, 
Oh, I could please a young lass 

As well as a richer man. 

The parson he ca'd me a ro^e, 

The session and a' thegither. 
The justice he cried, You dog, 

Your knavery I'll consider: 
Sae I drapt down on my knee 

And thus did humbly pray, 
Oh, if ye'U let me gae free, 

My hale confession ye'se hae. 

'Twas late on tysday at e'en, 

When the moon was on the graft; 
Oh, just for charity's sake, 

I was kind to a beggar lass. 
She had begg'd down Annan side, 

Lochmaben and Hightae ; 
Butdeil an awmous she got. 

Till she met wi' auld Glenae, &c. 



JOHNNY FAA, OR THE GIPSY 
LADDIE. 

The people in Ayrsliire begin this 
song — 
'■'■ The gipsies cam to my Lord Cassilis' yett." 

They have a great many more stanzas 
in this song than I ever yet saw in any 
printed copy. The castle is still re- 
maining at Maybole where his lordship 
shut up his wayward spouse, and kept 
her for life. 

The gipsies came to our lord' s gate, 
And wow but they sang sweetly ; 

They sang sae sweet, and sae complete, 
That down came the fair lady. 

When she came tripping down the stair, 

And a' her maids before her. 
As soon as they saw her weel-fard face. 

They coost the glamour o'er her. 

" Gar tak fra me this gay mantile. 

And bring to me a plaidie ; 
For if kuh and kin and a' had sworn, 

I'll follow the gipsy laddie. 

" Yestreen I lay in a weel-made bed. 

And my good lord beside me ; 
This night I'll lie in a tenant's barn. 

Whatever shall belide me." 

Oh ! come to your bed, says Johnny Faa, 
Oh ! come to your bed, my dearie ; 

For I vow and swear by the hilt of my f word 
That your lord shall nae mair come near yti 



824 



BURNS' WORKS. 



" 111 go lo bed to my Johnny Faa, 

And I'll go to bed to my dearie ; 
For I vow and swear by what pass'd yestreen 

That my lord shall nae mair come near me." 

*' 111 mak a hap to ray Johnny Faa, 
And I'll mak a hap to my dearie ; 

And he's get a' the coat gaes round, 
And my lord shall na mair come near me." 

And when our lord came hame at e'en. 

And speir'd for his fair lady, 
The tane she cried, and the other replied, 

She's awa' wi' the gipsy laddie. 

" Gae saddle to me the black, black steed, 
Gae saddle and make him ready ; 

Before that I either eat or sleep 
I'll gae seek my fair lady." 

And we were fifteen well-made men, 

Although we were nae bonny ; 
And we were a' put down forane, 

A fair, young, wanton lady. 



TO DAUNTON ME. 

The two following old stanzas to 
this tune have some merit, — 

To daunton me, to daunton me. 

Oh, ken ye what it is that '11 daunton me ?— 

There's eighty-eight and eighty-nine, 

And a' that I hae borne sinsync. 

There's cess and press, ^ and Presbytrie, 

I think it will do meikle for to daunton me. 

But to wanton me, to wanton me, 

Oh, ken ye what it is that wad wanton me ? 

To see guid corn upon the rigs. 

And banishment amang the Whigs, 

And right restored where right sud be. 

I think it would do meikle for to wanton me. 



ABSENCE. 
A SONG in the manner of Shenstone. 

The song and air are both by Dr. 
Blacldock. 
The following are two stanzas of this strain :— 

Ye harvests that wave in the breeze 

As far as the view can extend ; 
Ye mountains umbrageous with trees. 

Whose tops so majestic ascend ; 
Your landscape what joy to survey. 

Were Melissa with me to admire ! 
Then the harvests would glitter how gay, 

How majestic the mountains aspire ! 

Ye zephyrs that visit my fair. 
Ye sunbeams around her that play, 

Does her sympathy dwell on mv care. 
Does she number the hours of my stay ? 

Mji • 

* Scot and lot. 



First perish ambition and wealth. 

First perish all else that is dear. 
E'er one sigh siiould escape her by stealth. 

E'er my absence should cost her one teai 



I HAD A HORSE, AND I HAD 
NAE MA Hi. 

This story is founded on fact, A 
John Hunter, ancestor of a very re 
spectable farming family, who live in a 
place in the parish,'! think, of Galston, 
called Bar-mill, was the luckless bero 
that " had a horse and had nae mair." 
— For some little youthful follies he 
found it necessary to make a retreat to 
the West Highlands, where ' ' he fee'd 
hiruself to a HigJdund laird," for that 
is the expression of all the oral editions 
of the song I ever heard. The present 
Mr. Hunter, who told me the anecdote, 
is the great grandchild of our hero. 

I HAD a horse, and I had nae mair, 

I gat him frae my daddy , 
My purse was light, and heart was sair. 

But my wit it was fu' ready. 
And sae I thought me on a time, 

OuLwittens of my daddy, 
To fee mysel to a lawland laird, 

Wha had a bonny lady. 

I wrote a letter, and thus began,— 

" Madam, be not offended, 
I'm o er the lugs in luv wi' you, 

And care not though ye kend it : 
For I get little frae the laird. 

And far less frae my daddy. 
And I would blithely be the man 

Would strive to please my lady." 

She read my letter, and she leugh, 

" Ye needna been sae blate, man ; 
You might hae come^to me yoursel, , 

And tauld me o' your state, man ; 
You might hae come to me, yoursel, 

Outwittens o' ony body, 
And made jfohn Gowkston of the laird. 

And kiss'd his bonny lady." 

Then she pat siller in my purse, 

We drank wine in a coggie ; 
She fee'd a man to rub my horse, 

And wow but I was vogie ! 
But 1 gat ne'er sae sair a fleg. 

Since I cam frae my daddy, 
The laird came, rap, rap, to the yett' 

When I was wi' his lady. 

Then she pat me below a chair, 

And happ'd me wi' a plaidie ; 
But I was like to swarf wi' fear, 

And wished me wi' my daddy, 
The laird went out, he saw nae fltCj 

I went when I was ready ; 
I promised, but I ne'er gaed back 

To kiss my bonny lady. 



BEMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



325 



UP AND WARN A', WILLIE. 

This edition of the bon^ I got from 
Tom Niel, of facetious fame, in Edin- 
burgh. The expression "Up and 
warn a', Willie," alludes to the Cran- 

j tara, or warning of a clan to arms. 

- Not understanding this, the Low- 
landers in the west and south say, "Up 
and waur them a'." &c. 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 

It is remark- worthy that the song of 
** Hooly and Fairly," in all the old 
editions A it, is called " The Drunken 
Wife o Galloway," which localises it 
to that country. 



There's Auld Rob Morris that wins in yon 
glen, [auld men : 

He's the king o' gude fallows, and wale o* 

Has fourscore o' black sheep, and fourscore 
too. 

And auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun loo. 

DOUGHTER. 

Haud your tongue, mither, and let that abee. 
For his eild and my eild can never agree ; 
They'll never agree, and that will be seen, 
For he is fourscore, and I'm but fifteen. 



Haud you tongue, doughter, and lay by your 
pride, [bride ; 

For he's be the bridegroom, and ye's be the 
He shall lie by your side, and kiss ye too, 
Aald Rob Morris is the man ye maun loo. 

DOUGHTER. 

Auld Rob Morris, I ken him fu' weel. 
His back sticks out like ony peat-creel ; 
He'sout-shinn'd, in-kne'ed,and ringle-eed,too, 
Auld Rob Morris is the man I'll ne'er loo. 



Though auld Rob Morris be an elderly man. 
Yet his auld brass it will buy a new pan ; 
Then, doughter, ye shouldna be sae ill to shoo, 
For auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun loo. 



But auld Rob Morris I never will hae, 

His back is sae stiff, and his beard 's grown 

, gray ; 

I had rather die than live wi' him a year, 

Sae mair of Rob Morris 1 never will hear. 

The ■•' Drunken wife o' Galloway" is in a:i- 
other strain ; the idea is original, and it can- 
not be denied that the author, whoever he 
was, has followed up the conception with 
great spirit, A few verses will prove this. 



Oh ! what had I ado for to marry, [canary ; 
My wife she drinks naething but sack and 
I to her friends complain'd right curly, 
Oh ! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly. 

Hooly and fairly : hooly and fairly^ 

Oh! gin my wife -wad drink hooly and fairly/ 



First she drank Crommie, and syne she drank 

Garie, 
Then she has drunken my bonny gray mearie, 
That carried me through the dub and tne 

lairie. 
Oh ! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly 2 

The very gray mittens that gaed on my ban's. 
To her ain neibour wife she has laid them ia 
pawns, [dearly, 

Wi' my bane-headed staff that I lo'ed sae 
Oh ! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly ! 

I never was given to wrangling nor strife, j 
Nor e'er did refuse her the comforts of life; 
Ere it come to a war, I'm aye for a parley. 
Oh ! gin my wife wad drink hooly and Cairly! 

A pint wi' her cummers I wad her allow ; 
But when she sits down she fills hersel fou' ; 
And when she is fou'she's unco camstrairie. 
Oh ! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly ! 

An when she comes hame she lays on the 

lads. 
And ca's a' the lasses baith limmers and jads ; 
And I my ain sell an auld cuckold carlie. 
Oh ! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly , 



NANCY'S GHOST. 
This song is by Dr. Blacklock. 

Ah ! hapless man, thy perjured vow 
Was to thy Nancy's heart a grave ! 

The damps of death bedew'd my brow 
Whilst thou the dying maid could save I 

Thus spake the vision, and withdrew; 

From Sandy's cheeks the crimson fled ; 
Guilt and Despair their arrows threw, 

And now behold the traitor dead ! 

Remember, swains, my artless straitlt. 
To plighted faith be ever true ; 

And let no injured maid complain 
She finds false Sandy live in you! 



TUNE YOUR FIDDLES, &C. 

This song was composed by the Rer. 
John Skinner, nonjuror clergyman at 
Linshart, near Peterhead. He is like- 
wise author of " Tullochgorum,'* 
" Ewie wi' the Crooked Horn," "John 
o' Badenyon," &c.,-and, what is of still 
more consequence, he is one of the 
worthiest of mankind. He is the 
autlhor of an ecclesiastical history oi 



n^6 



BtTRNS' WORKS. 



Scotland. The air is by Mr. Marshall, 
butler to the Dui^e of Gordozi — tlie first 
composer of strathspeys of the age. 
I have been told by somebody, who 
had it of Marshall himself, that he toolc 
the idea of his three most celebrated 
pieces, "The Marquis of Huntley's 
Reel," "His Farewell," and "Miss 
Admiral Gordon's Reel," from the old 
air, " The German Lairdie." 

Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly. 
Play the Marquis' Reel discreetly ; 
Here we are a band completely 

Fitted to be jolly. 
Come, my boys, be blithe and gaucie, 
Every youngster choose his lassie. 
Dance wi' life, and be not saucy, 

Shy, nor melancholy. 

Lay aside your sour grimaces, 
Clouded brows, and drumlie faces; 
Look about and see their graces. 

How they smile delighted. 
Now's the season to be merry, 
Hang the thoughts of Charon's ferry, 
Time enough to turn camsta'-y. 

When we're old and doitca. 



GIL MORICE.* 

This plaintive ballad ought to have 
been called Child Morice, and not Gil 
Morice. In its present dress, it has 
gained immortal honour from Mr. 
Home's taking from it the groundwork 
of his fine tragedy of ' ' Douglas. " But 
I am of opinion that the present ballad 
is a modern composition, — perhaps not 
much above the age of the middle of 
the last century; at least I should 
be glad to see or hear of a copy of the 
present words prior to 1650. That it 
was taken from an old ballad, called 
"Child Maurice," now lost, I am in- 
clined to believe; but the present one 
may be classed with " Hardyknute," 
"Kenneth," " Duncan, the Laird of 
Woodhouselee," " Lord Livingston," 
*' Binnorie," "The Death of Monteith," 
and many other modern productions, 
which have been swallowed by many 



* Mr. Pinkerton remarks that, in many 
parts of Scotland, " Gill" at this day signifies 
' Child," as is the case in the Gaelic : thus, 
"Gilchrist" means the "Child of Christ."— 
"Child" seems also to have been the custom- 
ary appellation of a young nobleman, when 
nbout fifteen years of a^e. 



readers as ancient fragments of ol4 
poems. This l^eautif ul plaintive tune 
was composed by Mr. M'Gibbon, the 
selecter of a collection of Scots tunes. 

In addition to the observations on 
Gil Morice, I add that, of the songs 
which Captain Riddel mentions, " Ken- 
neth" and " Duncan" are juvenile com- 
positions of Mr. M'Kenzie, " The Mam 
of Feeling." — M'Kenzie's father 
showed them in MS. to Dr. Blacklock 
as the productions of his son, from 
which the doctor rightly prognosti- 
cated that the young poet would make, 
in his more advanced years, a respect' 
able figure in the world of letters. 

This I had from Blacklock. 



WHEN I UPON THY BOSOM 
LEAN.* 

This song was the work of a very 
worthy facetious old fellow, John 
Lapraik, late of Dalfram, near Muir- 
kirk, which little property he was 
obliged to sell in consequence of some 
connection as security for some persons 
concerned in that villanous bubble, 
The Ayr Bank. He has often told 
me that he composed this song one day 
when his wife had been fretting over 
their misfortunes. 

When I upon thy bosom lean. 

And fondly clasp thee a' my ain, 
I glory in the sacred ties 

That made us ane wha ance were twain : 
A mutual flame inspires us baith, 

The tender look, the melting kiss : 
Even years shall ne'er destroy our lofe, 

But only gie us change o' bliss. 

Hae I a wish ? it's a' for thee ; 

I ken thy wish is me to please ; 
Our moments pass sae smooth away. 

That numbers on us look and gaze. 
Weel pleased they see our happy days, 

Nor Envy's sel find aught to blame ; 
And aye when weary cares arise. 

Thy bosom still shall be my hame. 



* This is the song " that some kind husband 
had addrest to some sweet wife," alluded t« 
in the " Epistle to J. Lapraik." 

There was ae san£^ amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleased me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife ; [breast, 
It thrilled the heart-strings through tha 

A' to the life. 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SOXO. 



I'll lay me there, and take my rest. 

And if that aught disturb my dear, 
I'll bid her laugh her cares away, 

And beg her not to drap a tear ; 
Hae I a joy ? it's a' her ain ; 

United still her heart and mine ; 
They're like the woodbine round the tree, 

That's twined till death shall them disjoin. 



THE HIGHLAND CHARACTER; 

OR, GARB OP OLD GAUL. 

This tune was the composition of 
Gen. Reid, and called by him "The 
Highland, or 42d Regiment's March." 
The words are by Sir Harry Erskine. 

In the garb of old Gaul, with the fire of old 
Rome, [we come, 

From the heath-cover'd mountains of Scotia 

Where the Romans endeavour'd our country 
to gain ; [in vain. 

But our ancestors fought, and they fought not 

No effeminate customs our sinews unbrace, 
No luxurious tables enervate our race. 
Our loud-sounding pipe bears the true mar- 
tial strain. 
So do we the old Scottish valour retain. 

We're tall as the oak on the mount of the vale. 
As swift as the roe which the hound doth as- 
sail, [pear. 
As the full moon in autumn our shields do ap- 
Minerva would dread to encounter our spear. 

As a storm in the ocean when Boreas blows. 
So are we enraged when wa rush on our foes ; 
We sons of the mountains, tremendous as 
rocks, [ing strokes. 

Dash the force of our foes with our thunder- 



LEADER-HAUGHS AND YARROW. 

There is in several collections the 
old song of "Leader- Haughs and Yar- 
row. " It seems to have been the work 
of one of our itinerant minstrels, as he 
calls himself, at the conclusion of his 
6ong, "Minstrel Burn." 

When Phoebus bright, the azure skies 

With golden rays enlight'neth. 
He makes all Nature's beauties rise. 

Herbs, trees, and fiowers he quickeneth, 
Amongst all those he makes his choice, 

And with delight goes thorow. 
With radiant beams and silver streams 

O'er Leader-Haughs and Yarrow. 

(Vhen Aries the day and night 

In equal length divideth, 
Vuld frosty Saturn takes his flight, 

Nat laager he abjdeth ; 



Then Flora Queen, with mantle green, 

Casts aff her former sorrow. 
And vows to dwell with Ceres' sel, 

In Leader-Haughs and Yarrow. 

Pan playing on his aiten reed, 

And shepherds him attending. 
Do here resort their flocks to feed« 

The hills and haughs commending. 
With cur and kent upon the bent, 

Sing to the sun good-morrow. 
And swear nae fields mair pleasure yields 

Than Leader-Haughs and Yarrow. 

A house there stands on Leaderside,* 

Surmounting my descriving. 
With rooms sae rare, and windows fair. 

Like Dedalus' contriving: 
Men passing by, do aften cry. 

In sooth It hath nae marrow ; 
It stands as sweet on Leaderside, 

As Newark does on Yarrow. 

A mile below wha lists to ride, 

They'll hear the mavis singing ; 
Into St. Leonard's banks she'll bide. 

Sweet birks her head o'erhinging; 
The lintwhite loud and Progne proud. 

With tuneful throats and narrow. 
Into St. Leonard's banks they sing, 

As sweetly as in Yarrow. 

The lapwing lilteth o'er the lee. 

With nimble wing she sporteth ; 
But vows she'll fiee far frae the tree. 

Where Philomel resorteth : 
By break of day the lark can say, 

I'll bid you a good-morrow, 
I'll streek my wing, and, mounting, sing 

O'er Leader-Haughs and Yarrow. 

Park, Wanton-waws, and Wooden-cleugh, 

The East and Western Mainses, 
The wood of Lauder's fair enough. 

The corn is good in Blainshes : 
Where aits are fine, and sold by kind, 

That if ye search all thorow 
Mearns, Buchan, Mar, nane better are 

Than Leader-Haughs and Yarrow. 

In Burmill Bog, and Whiteslade Shaws, 

The fearful hare she haunteth ; 
Brigh-haugh and Braidwoodshiel she knaws, 

And Chapel-wood frequenteth ; 
Yet when she irks, to Kaidsly birks 

She rins and sighs for sorrow. 
That she should leave sweet Leader-Haughs, 

And cannot win to Yarrow! 

What sweeter music wad ye hear 

Than hounds and beagles crying? 
The startled hare rins hard with fear. 

Upon her speed relying: 
But yet her strength it fails at length, 

Nae beildincf can she burrow. 
In Sorrel's field, Cleckman, or Hag's, 

And sighs to be in Yarrow. 



* Thirlstane Castle, an ancient s^at of t^ 
Earl of Lauderdale, 



558 



BURNS' WORKS. 



For Rockwood, Ringwood, Spoty, Shag, 

With sight and scent pursue her, 
Till, ah ! her pith begins to flag, 

Nae cunning can rescue her: 
O'er dub and dyke, o'er seugh and syke. 

She'll rin the fields all thorow, 
Till fail'd, she fa's in Leader-Haughs, 

And bids fareweel to Yarrow. 

Sing Erslington and Cowdenknows, 

Where Homes had ance commanding ; 
And Drygrange with the milk-white ewes, 

'Twixt Tweed and Leader standing ; 
The birds that flee throw Reedpath trees. 

And Gledswood banks ilk morrow. 
May chant and sing— Sweet Leader-Haughs, 

And bonny howms of Yarrow. 

But Minstrel Burn cannot assuage 

His grief while life endureth. 
To see the changes of this age. 

That fleeting time procureth : 
For mony a place stands in hard case, 

Where blithe fowk kend nae sorrow. 
With Homes that dwelt on Leaderside, 

And Scots that dwelt on Yarrow. 



THIS IS NO MY AIN HOUSE. 

The first half stanza is old, the rest 
is Ramsay's. The old words aie — 

Oh, this is no my ain house. 
My ain house, my ain house ; 

This is no my ain house, 
I ken by the biggin o't. 

Bread and cheese are my door-cheeks, 
My door-cheeks, my door-cheeks ; 

Bread and cheese are my door-cheeks, 
And pancakes the riggin o't. 

This is no my ain wean. 

My ain wean, ray ain wean. 
This IS no my ain wean, 

I ken by the greetie o't. 

I'll tak the curchie aff my head ; 

Aff my head, aff my head ; 
I'll take the curchie aff my head. 

And row't about the feetie o't. 

The tune is an old Highland air, 
called" Shuan truishwillighan.^' 



LADDIE, LIE NEAR ME. 

This song is by Dr. Blacklock. 

Hark, the loud tempest shakes the earth to 

its centre, [ture ; 

How mad were the task on a journey to ven- 

How dismal's my prospect, of life I am weary. 

Oh, listen, my love, I beseech thee to hear me. 

Hear me, hear me, in tenderness hear me ; 

All the lang winter night, laddie lie pear 



Nights though protracted, though piercing 

the weather, [gether; 

Yet summer was endless when we were to* 

Now smce thy absence I feel most severely, 

Joy is extinguished and being is dreary, 

Dreary, dreary, painful and dreary ; [ma 

All the long winter night laddie lie neal 



THE GABERLUNZIE MAN * 

The Gaberlunzie Man is supposed Us 
commemorate an intrigue of James V. 
Mr. Callander of Craigforth published, 
some years ago, an edition of "Christ's 
Kirk on the Green," and the " Gaber- 
lunzie Man," with notes critical and 
historical. James V. is said to have 
been fond of Gosford, in Aberlady 
parish; and that it was suspected by 
his contemporaries that, in his fre- 
quent excursions to that part of the 
country, he had other purposes in view 
besides golfing and archery. Three 
favourite ladies — Sandilands, Weir, 
and Oliphant (one. of them resided ai 
Gosford, and the others in the neigh, 
borhood) — were occasionally visited by 
their royal and gallant admirer, which 
gave rise to tlie following satirical 
advice to his Majesty, from Sir David 
Lindsay, of the Mount, Lord Lyon.f 

Sow not yere seed on Sandilands, 
Spend not yere strength in Weir 

And ride not on yere Oliphants, 
For gawing o' yere gear. 

The pawky auld carle came o'er the lea, 
Wi' many good e'ens and days to me. 
Saying Guidwife, for your courtesie. 

Will ye lodge a silly poor man ? 
The night was cauld, the carle was wat, 
And down ayont the ingle he sat ; 
My daughter's shoulders he 'gan to clap, 

And cadgily ranted and sang. 

Oh, wow ! quo' he, were I as free 
As first when I saw this countrie. 
How blithe an(3 merry wad I be ! 

And I wad never think lang. 
He grew canty, and she grew fain ; 
But little did her auld minny ken 
What thir slee twa togither were sayin*, 

When wooing they were sae thrang. 

And oh, quo' he, and ye were as black 
As e'er the crown of my daddy's hat, 
'Tis I wad lay thee on my back. 
And awa' wi' me thou should gang. 



*A wallet-man, or tinker, who appears X4 
have been formerly a Jack-of-all-trades. 

t Sir David wa^ Lion King-at-Arms qqdcl 
Jcimcs V, 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SOFG. 



And oh, quo' she, an I were as white 
As e'er the snaw lay on the dike, 
I'd deed me braw, and lady like 
And awa' with thee I'd gang. 

Between the twa was made a plot : 
They raise awee before the cock. 
And wilily they shot the lock, 

And fast to the bent are they gane. 
Up in the morn the auld wife raise, 
And at her leisure put on her claise ; 
Syne to the servant's bed she gaes, 

To speer for the silly poor man. 

She gaed to the bed where the beggar lay, 
The strae was cauld, he was away ! 
She clapt her hand, cried dulefu' day ! 

For some of our gear will be gane. 
Some ran to coffer, and some to kist, 
But nought was stown that could be mist. 
She danced her lane, cried. Praise be blest ! 

I have lodged a leal poor man. 

Since naething's awa', as we can learn. 

The kirn's to kirn, and milk to earn, [bairn, 

Gae but the house, lass, and wauken my 

And bid her come quickly ben. 
The servant gaed where the daughter lay, 
The sheets were cauld, she was away, 
And fast to her guidwife did say, 

She's aff with the Gaberlunzie man. 

Oh, fy ! gar ride, and fy ! gar rin. 
And haste ye find these traitors again ; 
For she's be burnt, and he's be slain. ' 

The wearifu' Gaberlunzie man! 
Some rade upo' horse, some ran a-foot. 
The wife was wud, and out o' her wit, 
She could na gang, nor yet could she sit, 

^ut aye did curse and did ban. 

Meantime far hind out o'er the lea, 

Fu' snug in a glen where nane could see, 

The twa, with kindly sport and glee, 

Cut frae a new cheese a whang. 
The priving was good, it pleased them baith ; 
To lo'e for aye he gae her his aith ; 
Quo' she, to leave thee I will be laith, 

My winsome Gaberlunzie man. 

Oh, kenn'd my minnie I were wi' you, 
!ll-fardly wad she crook her mou, 
Bic a poor man she'd never trow. 

After the Gaberlunzie man. 
My dear, quo' he, ye'er yet o'er young, 
A.nd hae nae learned the beggar's tongue, 
To follow me frae town lo town, 

And carry the Gaberlunzie on. 

Wi' cauk and keel I'll win your bread, 

^nd spindles and whorles for them wha need, 

Whilk is a gentle trade indeed. 

To carry the Gaberlunzie on. 
I'll bow my leg, and crook my knee, 
And draw a black clout o'er my ee • 
A cripple, or blind, they will ca' me'. 

While we shall be merry and sing. 



THE BLACK EAGLE. 
This song is by Dr. Fordyce, 
merits as a prose writer 
^owu. 



whose 
are well 



Hark ! yonder eagle lonely wails ; 
His faithful bosom grief assails ; 
Last night I heard him in my dream, 
When death and woe were all the theme. 
Like that poor bird I make my moan, 
I grieve for dearest Delia gone ; 
With him to gloomy rocks I fly. 
He mourns for love, and so do I. 

'Twas mighty love that tamed his breast« 
'Tis tender grief that breaks his rest ; 
He droops his wings, he hangs his head. 
Since she he fondly loved was dead. 
With Delia's breath my joy expired, 
"Twas Delia's smiles my fancy fired ; 
Like that poor bird, I pine, and prove 
Nought can supply the place of love. 

Dark as his feathers was the fate 
That robbed him of his darling mate, 
Dimm'd is the lustre of his eye. 
That wont to gaze the sun-bright sky. 
To him is now forever lost 
The heartfelt bliss he once could boast ; 
Thy sorrows, hapless bird, display 
An image of my soul's dismay. 



JOHNNIE COPE. 

This satirical song was composed to 
commemorate General Cope's defeat at 
Prestonpans in 1745, when he marched 
against the Clans. 

The air was the tune of an old song 
of which I have heard some verses, but 
now only remember the title, which 
was, 

'' Will ye go to the coals in the morning ?"* 

Cope sent a challenge frae Dunbar— 
Charlie, meet me, and ye daur. 
And I'll learn you the art of war, 
If you'll meet me i' the morning. 



Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye waking yet? 
Or are your drums a-beating yet ? 
If ye were waking I would wait 
"To gang to the coals i' the morning. 

When Charlie looked the letter upon. 
He drew his sword the scabbard from. 
Come follow me, my merry, merry men. 
To meet Johnnie Cope i' the morning. 

Now, Johnnie Cope, be as good as your wot 
And try our fate wi' fire and sword. 
And dinnatak wing like a frighten'd bird, 
That's chased frae its nest i' the morningi 

When Johnnie Cope he heard of this, 
He thought it wadna be amiss 
To hae a horse in readiness 
To flee awa i' the morning. 

Fy, Johnnie, now get up and rin. 
The Highland bagpipes make a dia. 



StTHNS' WORj:S. 



It's best to sleep in a hale skin, 
For 'twill be a bluidy morning. 

Yon's no the tuck o' England's drum, 
But it's the war-pipes deadly strum : 
And poues the claymore and the gun- 
It will be a bluidy morning. 

When Johnnie Cope to Dunbar came, 
They speir'd at him, " Where's a' your men ? 
' The deil confound me gin I ken. 
For I left them a' i' the morning." 

Now, Johnnie, trouth ye was na blate, 
To come wi' the news o' your ain defeat, 
And leave your men in sic a strait, 
Sae early i' the morning. 

Ah ! faith, quo' Johnnie, I got a fleg, 
With theirclaymoresand philabeg : 
If I face them again, deil break my leg, 
Sae I wish you a good morning. 

Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye waking yet ? 
Or are your drums a-beating yet ? 
If ye were waking I would wait 
To gang to the coals i' the morning. 



CEASE, CEASE, MY DEAR FRIEND, 
TO EXPLORE. 

The song is by Dr. Blacklock; I 
believe, but I am not quite certain, 
that the air is his too. 

Cease, cease my dear friend to explore 

From whence and how piercing my smart ; 
Let the charms of the nymph I adore 

Excuse and interpret my heart. 
Then how much I admire ye shall prove. 

When like me ye are taught to admire. 
And imagine how boundless my love. 

When you number the charms that inspire. 

Than sunshine more dear to my sight, 

Tc my life more essential than air. 
To my soul she is perfect delight. 

To my sense all that's pleasing and fair. 
The c wains who her beauty behold. 

With transport applaud every charm, 
\nd swear that the breast must be cold 

Whl;h a beam so intense cannot warm. 

Does my boldness offend my dear maid ? 

Is my fondness loquacious and free ? 
Are my visits too frequently paid ? 

Or my converse unworthy of thee ? 
Yet when grief was too big for my breast, 

And labour'd in sighs to complain. 
Its struggles I oft have supprest. 

And silence imposed on my pain. 

Ah. Strephon, how vain thy desire. 
Thy numbers and music how vain. 

While merit and fortune conspire 
The smiles of the nymph to obtain. 



Yet cfease to upbraid the soft choice, 
Though it ne'er should determine for fcee; 

If my heart in her joy may reioice, 
Unhappy thou never canst be. 



AULD ROBIN GRAY. 

This air was formerly called '■' The 
Bridegroom Greets when the Sun 
Gangs Down." The words are by 
Lady Ann Lindsay, of the Balcarras 
family. 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and a' the 

kye at hame, 
And a' the weary warld to sleep are gane : 
The waes of my heart fa' in showers frae my 

ee. 
When my guidman sleeps sound by me. 

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and he sought 
me for his bride, [side ; 

But saving a crown he had naethingelse be- 
To make that crown a pound, my Jamie gaed 



to sea. 



gaea 
[me. 



And the crown and the pound were baith for 

He hadna been gane a year and a day. 
When my father brak his arm, and my Jamie 
at the sea, [stown away ; 

My mither she fell sick, and our cow was 
And auld Robin Gray came a courting to me. 

My father couldna work, and my mither 
couldna spin, [na win ; 

I toil'dday and night, but their bread I could- 

Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears 
in his ee. 

Said, " Jenny, /or their sakes, oh, marry me." 

My heart it said nae, for I look'd for Jamie 
back, [a wrack ; 

But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was 
The ship it was a wrack, why didna Jenny 
And why do I live to say, Wae's me ? [die, 

My father argued sair, though my mither did- 
na speak, [break ; 

She lookit in my face till my heart was like to 

Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart 
was in the sea, 

And auld Robin Gray is a guid man to me. 

I hadna been a wife a week but only four. 
When, sitting sae mournfully at the door, 
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think 
it he, [thee." 

Till he said, " I'm come back for to marry 

Oh, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say. 
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselvet 

away: 
I wish I were dead ! but I'm no like to die» 
And why do I live to say. Wae's me ! 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin, 
I darena think on Jamie, for that wad be 9 
But I'll do my best a guid wife to be, [sin 
For auld Robin Gray is kmd unto me. 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONa 



331 



DONALD AND FLORA.* 

This is one of those fine Gaelic tunes 
preserved from time immemorial in 
ihe Hebrides; they seem to be the 
groundwork of many of our finest 
Scots pastoral tunes. The words of 
this song were written to commemorate 
the unfortunate expedition of General 
Burgoyne in America, in 1777. 

When merry hearts were gay, 
Careless of aught but play, 
Poor Flora slipt away, 

Sad'ning to Mora ;t 
Loose flow'd her coal black hair, 
j^uick heaved her bosom bare, 
As thus to the troubled air 

She vented her sorrow :— 

*' Loud howls the northern blast. 
Bleak is the dreary waste ; 
Haste thee, O Donald, haste, 

Haste to thy Flora ! 
Twice twelve long months are o'er, 
Since, on a foreign shore. 
You promised to fight no more. 

But meet me in Mora. 

" ' Where now is Donald dear ?' 
Maids cry with taunting sneer ; 
' Say is he still sincere 

To his loved Flora ?' 
Parents upbraid my moan, 
Each heart is turned to stone ; 
Ah ! Flora, thou'rt now alone, 

Friendless in Mora ! 

" Come, then, oh come away ! 
Donald, no longer stay ;— 
Where can my rover stray 

From his loved Flora ? 
Ah ! sure he ne'er can be 
False to his vows and me — 
Oh, Heaven ! is not yonder he 

Bounding o'er Mora?" 

*' Never, ah ! wretched fair ! 
(Sigh'd the sad messenger,) 
Never shall Donald mair 

Meet his loved Flora ! 
Cold, cold beyond the main, 
Donald, thy love lies slain : 
He sent me to soothe thy pain, 

Weeping in Mora. 

* "This fine ballad," says Cunningham, " is 
the composition of Hector Macneil, Esq.. au- 
thor of the celebrated poem, ' Will and Jean,' 
and other popular works. Hector Macneil 
was looked up to as Scotland's hope in song 
when Burns died ; his poems flew over the 
north like wildfire, and half a dozen editions 
were bought up in a year. The Donald of the 
song was Captain Stewart, who fell at the 
battle of Saratoga, and Flora was a young 
lady of Athole, to whom he was betrothed." 

t A small valley in Athole, so named by tke 
tW9 lovers. 



" Well fought our gallant men. 
Headed by brave Burgoyne, 
Our heroes were thrice led on 

To British glory. 
But, ah ! though our foes did flee, 
Sad was the loss to thee, 
While every fresh victory 

Drown'd us in sorrow. 

" ' Here, take this trusty blade, 
(Donald expiring said) 
Give it to yon dear maid. 

Weeping in Mora. 
Tell her, O Allan ! tell, 
Donald thus bravely fell. 
And that in his last farewell 

He thought on his Flora.' " 

Mute stood the trembling fair. 
Speechless with wild despair, 
Then, striking her bosom bare, 

Sigh'd out, " Poor Flora !" 
O Donald ! oh, well a day ! 
Was all the fond heart could say; 
At length the sound died away 

Feebly, in Mora. 



THE CAPTIVE RIBBAND. 



is called " Robie do^a 



This air 
Gorach." 

Dear Myra, the captive ribband's mine, 
'Twas all my faithful love could gain ; 

And would you ask me to resign 
The sole reward that crowns my pain ? 

Go, bid the hero who has run 

Through fields of death to gather fam^. 
Go, bid him lay his laurels down, 

And all his well-earn'd praise disclaim.. 

The ribband shall its freedom lose. 
Lose all the bliss it had with you. 

And share the fate I would impose 
On thee, wert thou my captive too. 

It shall upon my bosom live, 
Or clasp me in a close embrace ; 

And at its fortune if you grieve, 
Retrive its doom and take its place. 



THE BRIDAL O'T. 

This song is the work of a Mr. Alex- 
ander Ross, late schoolmaster at Loch 
lee. and author of a beautiful Scota 
poem called " The Fortunate Shep* 
herdess." 

They say that Jockey'll speed well o't. 

They say that Jockey'll speed weclo't 
For he grows brawer ilka day — 

I hope we'll hae a bridal o't : 
For yesternight, nae farder gane. 

The backhouse at the side wa' o't, 
He there wi' Meg was mirden seen— • 

I hope we'll bee a bridal o't, 



buhns' works. 



532 



ondal o't, 



_ iiad but a bridal o't, 
"We'd leave the rest unto guid luck. 

Although there should betide ill o't ; 
For bridal days are merry times, 

And young folks like the comin' o't, 
A.nd scribblers they bang up their rhymes, 
And pipers hae the bumming o't. 

.Che lasses like a bridal o't. 

The lasses like a bridal o't. 
Their braws maun be in rank and file, 

Ahhough that they should guide ill o't; 
The bottom o' the kist is then 

Turn'd up unto the inmost o't. 
The end that held the kecks sae clean, 

Is now become the teemest o't. 

The bangster at the threshing o't, 

The bangster at the threshmg o't, 
Afore it comes is fidgin fain, 

And ilka day's a clashing o't: 
He'll sell his jerkin for a groat. 

His linder for anither o't, 
And e'er he want to clear his shot, 

His sark'll pay the tither o't. 

The pipers and the fiddlers o't, 

The pipers and the fiddlers o't. 
Can smell a bridal unco far, 

And like to be the meddlers o't ; 
Fan* thick and threefold they convene, 

Ilk ane envies the tither o't. 
And wishes nane but him alane 

May ever see anither o't. 

Fan they hae done wi' eating o't. 

Fan they hae done wi' eating o't. 
For dancing they gae to the green. 

And aiblins to the beating o't : 
He dances best that dances fast. 

And loups at ilka reesing o't. 
And claps his hands frae hough to hough, 

And furls about the feezings o't. 



TODLEN HAME. 

This is perliaps the first bottle song 
that ever was composed. The author's 
Dame is unknown. 

When I've a saxpence under my thumb. 

Then I'll get credit in ilka town : 

But aye when I'm poor they bid me gae by ; 

Oh, poverty parts good company. 
Todlen hame, todlen hame, 
Coudna my love come todlen hame ? 

Fair fa' the goodwife, and send her good sale, 
She gies us white bannocks to drink her ale, 
Syne if her tippeny chance to be sma', 
We'll tak a good scour o't, and ca't awa'. 
Todlen hame, todlen hame. 
As round as a neep come todlen hame. 



♦ Fan^ when— the dialect of Angus. 



My kimmer and I lay down to sleep, 
And twa pint-stoups at our bed-feet ; [dry. 
And aye when we waken'd, we drank them 
What think ye of my wee kimmer and I ? 

Todlen but, and todlen ben, 

Sae round as my love comes todlen hame. 



Leeze me on liquor, my todlen dow. 

Ye' re aye sae good humour'd when weetin^J 

your mou ; 
When sober sae sour, ye'll fight wi* a flee. 
That 'tis a bliihe sight to the bairns and me. 

When todlen hame, todlen hame, [hame. 

When round as a neep ye come todleo 



THE SHEPHERD'S PREFERENCE. 

This song is Dr. Blacklock's. — Idont 
know how it came by the name; but 
the oldest appellation of the air was, 
•'Whistle and I'll come to you, my 
lad." 

It has little affinity to the tune com- 
monly known by that name. 

In May, when the daisies appear on the green, 
And flowers in the field and the forest are 
seen ; [sprung. 

Where lilies bloom'd bonny, and hawthorns up 
A pensive young shepherd oft whistled and 
sung; [flowers. 

But neither the shades nor the sweets of the 
Nor the blackbirds that warbled in blossom- 
ing bowers. 
Could brighten his eye or his ear entertain. 
For love was his pleasure, and love was h.s 
pain. 

The shepherd thus sung, while his flocks all 

around [sound ; 

Drew nearer and nearer, and sigh'd to the 
Around, as in ciiains, lay the beasts of the 

wood. 
With pity disarm'd and with music subdued. 
Young Jessy is fair as the spring's early 

flower, [bower ; 

And Mary sings sweet as the bird in her 
But Peggy is fairer and sweeter than they. 
With looks like the morning, with smiles hke 

the day. 



JOHN 0' BADENYON. 

This excellent song is the composi- 
tion of my worthy friend, old Skinnei; 
at Linshart. 

When first I cam to be a man. 

Of twenty years or so, 
I thought myself a handsome youth. 

And lain the world would know: 
In best attire I stept abroad, 

With spirits brisk and gay, 
And here and there, and everywhere. 

Was like a morn in May. 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



333 



No care had I, nor fear of want, 

But rambled up and down, 
And for a beau I might have pass'd 

In country or in town ; 
3 still was pleased where'er I went, 

And when 1 was alone, 
I tuned my pipe and pleased myself 

Wi' John o' Badenyon. 

Now in the days of youthful prime, 

A mistress I must find, 
For love^ they say, gives one an air, 

And even improves the mind : 
On Phillis, fair above the rest, 

Kind fortune fixed my eyes ; 
Her piercing beauty struck my heart, 

And she became my choice : 
To Cupid, then, with hearty prayer, 

X offered many a vow ; [swore, 

And danced, and sung, and sigh'd, and 

As other lovers do : 
But, when at last I breathed my flame, 

I found her cold as stone : 
1 left the jilt, and tunned my pipe 

To John o' Badenyon. 

When love had thus my heart beguiled 

With foolish hopes and vain ; 
lo friendship's port I steered my course. 

And laugh'd at lover's pain : 
A friend I got by luckj'^ chance, 

'Twas something like divine 
An honest friend's a precious gift, 

And such a gift was mine : 
And now, whatever might betide, 

A happy man w^as I, 
In any strait I knew to whom 

1 freely might apply : 
A strait soon came, my friend I tried ; 

He heard, and spurn'd my moan ; 
I hied me home, and pleased myself, 

With John o* Badenyon. 

I thought I should be wiser next. 

And would a patriot turn. 
Began to dote on Johnny Wilkes, 

And cry up Parson Home. 
Their manly spirit I admired. 

And praised their noble zeal. 
Who had with flaming tongue and pen 

Maintain'd the public weal ; 
But ere a month or two had past, 

I found myself betray'd, 
'Twas j<9//"and party after all. 

For all the stir they made ; 
At last I saw these factious knaves 

Insult the very throne, 
I cursed them a , and tuned my pipe 

To John o' Badenyon. 

And now, ye youngsters everywhere. 

Who want to make a show. 
Take heed in time, nor vainly hope, 

For happiness below ; 
What you may fancy pleasure here 

Is but an empty name, 
For girls, and friends, and books, and so, 

You'll find them all the same. 
Then be advised, and warning take 

From such a man as me, 
I'm neither Pope, nor Cardinal, 

Nor one of high degree : 



You'll find displeasure ever3rwhere ; 

Then do as I have done, 
E'en tune your pipe, and please yourseli 

With John o' badenyon. 



A WAUKRIFE MINNIE.* 

I PICKED up this old song and tiirie 
from a country girl in Nithsdale. — i 
never met with it elsewhere in Swt 
land : — 

Whare are you gaun, my bonny lass ? 

Whare are you gaun, my hinnie? 
She answer'd me right saucilie— 

An errand for my minnie. 

Oh, whare live ye, my bonny lass? 

Oh, whare live ye, my hinnie? — 
By yon burn-side, gin ye maun ken. 

In a wee house wi' my minnie. 

But I foor up the glen at e'en 

To see my bonny lassie ; 
And lang before the gray morn cam 

She wasna half sae saucie. 

Oh, weaVy fa' the waukrife cock. 
And the foumart lay his crawin ! 

He wauken'd the auld wife frae her sleep 
A wee blink o' the dawin. 

An angry wife I wat she raise. 
And o'er the bed she brought her. 

And wi' a micklehazle rung 
She made her a weel-pay'd dochter. 

Oh, fare thee weel, my bonny lass ! 

Oh, fare thee weel, ftiy hinnie ! 
Thou art a gay and a bonny lass. 

But thou hast a waukrife minnie. 

The editor thinks it respectful to the 
poet to preserve the verses he thus re- 
covered. — R. B. 



TULLOCHeORUM. 

This first of songs is the master 
piece of my old friend Skinner. He 
was passing the day. at the town of 
Cullen. I think it was [he should 
have said Elo7i\ in a friend's house, 
whose name was Montgomery. Mrs. 
Montgomerv observing, en passant, 
that the beautiful reel of TuUochgorum 
wanted words, she begged them of Mr. 
Skinner, who gratified her wishes, and 
the wishes of every lover of Scotch 
song, in this most excellent ballad. 



♦ A watchful mother. 



d84 



BITR]SS' WORKS. 



These particulars I had from the 
author's son, Bishop Skinner, at Aber- 
deen. 

Come, gie's a sang, Montgomery cried, 
And lay your disputes all aside ; 
What signifies't for folks to chide 

For what was done before them ? 
Let Whig and Tory all agree, 

Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, 
Whig and Tory all agree. 

To drop their Whig-mig-morum. 
Let Whig and Tory all agree 
To spend the night in mirth and glee.» 
And cheerful sing alang wi' me 

The Reel o' TuUochgorum. 

Oh, Tullochgorum's my delight, 
It gars us a' in ane unite. 
And ony sumph that keeps up spite, 
In consoience I abhor him : 
For blithe and cheerie we'll be a', 

Blithe and cheerie, blithe and cheerie, 
Bhthe and cheerie we'll be a' 
And make a happy quorum : 
For blithe and cheerie we'll be a'. 
As lang as we hae breath to draw, 
And dance, till we be like to fa'. 

The Reel o' TuUochgorum. 

What needs there be sae great a fraise 
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays? 
I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys 

For half a hunder score o' 'em. 
They're dowf and dowie at the best, 
Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie, 
Dowf and dowie at the best, 
Wi' a' their variorum ; 
They're dowf and dowie at the best. 
Their allegros and a' the rest ; 
They canna please a Scottish taste. 

Compared wi' TuUochgorum. 

Let warldly worms their minds oppress 
Wi' fears o' want and double cess, 
And sullen sots themsels distress 

Wi' keeping up decorum : 
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit. 
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky. 
Sour and sulky shall we sit. 

Like old philosophorum? 
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, 
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit. 
Nor ever try to shake a fit 

To the Reel o' TuUochgorum ? 

May choicest blessings e'er attend 
Each honest, open-hearted friend, 
And calm and quiet be his end. 

And all that's good watch o'er him ! 
May peace and plenty be his lot. 

Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, 
Peace and plenty be his lot. 

And daintits a great store o' *em; 
May peace and plenty be his lot, 
Unstain'd by any vicious spot. 
And may he never want a groat. 

That's fond o' TulTochgorum ! 

But for the sullen f rampish fool 
That love's to be oppression's tool. 



May envy gnaw his rotten soul. 

And discontent devour him! 
May dool and sorrow be his chance 
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, 
Dool and sorrow be his chance, 

And nane say, Wae's me for him I 
May dool and sorrow be his chance, 
Wi' a' the ills that come trae France, 
Whae'er he be that winna dance 

The Reel o* TuUochgorum ! 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

Ramsay here, as is usual with him, 
has taken the idea of the song, and thfl 
first line, from the old fragment, 
which may be seen in the Museum, 
vol. V. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never thought upon, 
The flames of love extinguish'd, 

And freely past and gone ? 
Is thy kind heart now grown so cold. 

In that loving breast of thine. 
That thou canst never once reflect 

On auld lang syne ! 

If e'er I have a house, my dear. 

That truly is call'd mine. 
And can afford but country cheer, 

Or aught that's good therein ; 
Though thou wert rebel to the king". 

And beat with wind and rain, 
Assure thyself of welcome love. 

For auld lang syne. 



THE EWIE Wr THE CROOKED 
HORN. 

Another excellent song of old Skitt 
ner's. 

Oh, were I able to rehearse, 

My ewie's praise in proper verse, 

I'd sound it out as loud and fierce 

As ever piper's drone could blaw. \ 
The ewie wi the crookit horn 
Weel deserved baith garse and corn ; 
Sic a ewie ne'er was born 

Hereabout, nor far awa', 
Sic a' ewie ne'er was born 

Hereabout, nor far awa'. 

I never needed tar nor keil 
To mark her upo' hip or heel, 
Her crookit horn did just as weel 

To ken her by amo' them a' ; 
She never threaten'd scab nor rot, 
But keepit aye her ain jog trot, 
Baith to the fauld and to the cot. 

Was never sweir to lead nor ca*. 
Baith to the fauld and to the cot, 

Was never sweir to lead nor ca*. 



EEMARKS 0^ SCOTTISH SONG. 



Caud nor hunger never dang her. 
Wind nor rain could never wrang her ; 
Ance sne lay an ouk, and langer. 

Out aneath a wreath o' snaw ; 
Whan itherewies lap the dyke, 
And ate the kail for a' the tyke, 
My ewie never play'd the like. 

But tyc'd about the barnyard wa' ; 
My ewie never play'd the like. 

But tyc'd about the barnyard wa', 

A better nor a thriftier beast 

Nae honest man could weel hae wist, 

Puir silly thing, she never mist 

To hae ilk year a lamb or twa. 
The first she had I gae to Jock, 
To be to him a kind of stock, 
And now the laddie has a fiock 

Of mair nor thirty head to ca'. 
And now th» laddie has a flock 

Of mair than thirty head to ca'. 

The neist I gae to Jean ; and now 
The bairn's sae braw, has fauld sae fu'. 
That lads sae thick come her to woo, 

They're fain to sleep on hay or straw. 
I lookit aye at even' for her, 
For fear the foumart might devour her. 
Or some mischanter had come o'er her. 

Gin the beastie bade awa'. 
Or some mischanter had come o'er her, 

Gin the beastie bade awa'. 

Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping, 
(Wha can speak it without weeping ?) 
A villain cam when I was sleeping, 

And sta' my ewie, horn and a' ; 
I sought her sair upo' the morn, 
And down aneath a buss o' thorn, 
I got my ewie's crookit horn. 

But ah, my ewie was awa' ! 
I got my ewie s crookit horn. 

But ah, my ewie was awa'. 

Oh ! gin I had the loun that did it. 
Sworn I have as weel as said it. 
Though a' the world should forbid it, 

I wad gie his neck a thra' : 
I never met wi' sic a turn 

As this sin' ever I was born. 
My ewie wi' the crookit horn, 

Puir silly ewie, stown awa' ! 
My ewie wi' the crookit horn, 

Puir siUie ewie, stown awa'. 



HUGHIE GRAHAM. 

There are several editions of this 
ballad. — This here inserted is from 
oi-al tradition in Ayrshire, where, 
•when I was a boy, it was a popular 
Bong. — It originally had a simple old 
tune, which I have forgotten. 

Our Lords are to the mountains gane, 

A hunting o' the fallow deer, 
And they have grippet Hughie Graham, 

Fw stealing o' the bishop's mare. 



And they hae tied him hand and foot. 
And led him up through Stirling toun ; 

The lads and lassies met him there. 
Cried, Hughie Graham, thou art a loon. 

Oh, lowse my right hand free, he says, 
And put my braid sword in the same, 

He's no in Stirling toun this day 
Daur tell the tale to Hughie Graham. 

Up then bespake the brave Whitefoord, 

As he sat by the bishop's knee. 
Five hundred white stots I'll gie you. 

If ye'll let Hughie Graham gae free. 

Oh, baud your tongue, the bishop says,, 
And wi' your pleading let me be ; 

For though ten Grahams were in his coaU 
Hughie Graham this day shall die. 

Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord, 

As she sat by the bishop's knee ; 
Five hundred white pence I'll gie yoii. 

If ye'll gie Hughie Graham to me. 

Oh, baud your tongue now, lady fair. 

And wi' your pleading let it be ; 
Although ten Grahams were in his coat. 

It's for my honour he maun die. 

They've taen him to the gallows knowe. 

He looked to the gallows tree, 
Yet never colour left his cheek. 

Nor ever did he blink his ee. 

At length he looked round about, 

. To see whatever he could spy : 

And there he saw his auld father. 

And he was weeping bitterly. 

Oh, baud your tongue, my father dear, 
And wi' your weeping let it be ; 

Thy weeping's sairer on my heart 
"Than a that they can do to me. 

And ye may gie my brother John 
My sword that's bent in the middle clear; 

And let him come at twelve o'clock, 
And see me pay the bishop's mare. 

And ye may gie my brother James 
My sword that's bent in the middle brown; 

And bid him come at four o'clock. 
And see his brother Hugh cut down. 

Remember me to Maggy, my wife. 
The neist time ye gang o'er the moor ; 

Tell her she staw the bishop's mare. 
Tell her she was the bishop's whore. 

And ye may tell my kith and kin 
I never did disgrace their blood ; 

And when they meet the bishop's cloak 
To mak it shorter by the hood. 



A SOUTHLAND JENNY. 

This is a popular Ayrshire song, 
though the notes were never taken 
down before. It, as well as many ot 



BURNS' WORKS. 



^ . _^_ 

Oh, shield htm, ye angels, frae death irvAlarm^ 
Return him with laurels to my longj/ig aims, 
Syne frae all my care ye'll pleasantly free me, 
When back to my wishes my sogei" ye gie sne. 

Oh, soon may his honours blopm fair on hij 

brow, 
As quickly they must, if he grt but his due ; 
For in noble actions his cou/age is ready. 
Which makes me delight in my soger laddie. 



•Jie ballad tunes in this collectibu, was 
written from Mrs. Burns'. voice. 

The following verse of this strain will suf- 
fice :— 

A Southland Jenny that was right bonny, 
She had for a suitor a Norlan' Johnnie ; 
But he was siccan a bashfu' wooer 
That he could scarcely speak unto her. [ler, 
But blinks o' her beauty and hopes o' her sil- 
Forced him at last to fell his mind till 'er; 
fly dear, quo' he, we'll nae longer* tarry, 
fit- ye can love me, let's o'er the muir and 
marry 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 

This tune is claimed by Nathaniel 
Gow. It is notoriously taken from 
*• The Muckin' o' Geordie's Byre." It 
is also to be found, long prior to Na- 
thaniel Gow'"s era, in Aird's " Selec- 
tion of Airs and Marches," the first 
edition under the name'of ' ' The High- 
way to Edinburgh. " 



THEN, GUIDWIFE, COUNT THE 
LAWIN'. 

The chorus of this is part of an old 
song, one stanza of which I recollect: — 

Every day my wife tells me 
That ale and brandy will ruin me ; 
But if guid liquor be my dead, 
This shall be written on my head— 
Oh, guidwife, count the lawin'. 



THE SOGER LADDIE. 

The first verse of this is old; the 
rest is by Kanisay. The tune seems 
to be the same with a slow air called 
" Jacky Hume's Lament," or " The 
Hollin Buss," or " Ken ye what Mego' 
the Mill has gotten!" 

My soger laddie is over the sea. 

And he'll bring gold and silver to me, 

And when he comes hame he will make me 

his lady ; 
My blessings gang wi' him, my soger laddie. 

My doughty laddie is handsome and brave. 
And can as a soger and lover behave ; 
He's true to his country, to love he is steady— 
Tbe;e's few to compare wi' my soger laddie. 



WHERE WAD BONNY ANNIK 

LIE? 
The old name of the tune is,— 

Whare'U our guidman lie ? 
A silly old stanza of it runs thus- - 

Oh, whare'I' our giiidman lie, 

Guidman lie, guidman lie. 
Oh, whare'U our guidman lie. 

Till he shute o'er the simmer ?- 

Up amang the hen-bawks, 
The hen-bawks, the hen-bawks. 

Up amang the hen-bawks. 
Among the rotten timmer. 

Ramsay's song is as follows : — 

Oh, where wad bonny Annie He? 
A lane nae mair ye maunna lie ; 
Wad ye a guidman try. 

Is that the thing ye're lacking? 
Oh, can a lass sae young as I 
Venture on the bridal tye ? 
Syne down wi' a guidman lie ? 
I'm fley'd he'd keep me waukin. 

Never judge until ye try; 
Mak me your guidman, I 
Shanna hinder you to lie 

And sleep till ye be weary. 
What if I should vvauking lie. 
When the ho-boys are gaun by, 

Will ye tent me when I cry. 
My dear, I'm faint and eerie? 

In my bosom thou shalt lie. 
When thou waukrife art, or dry. 
Healthy cordial standing by 

Shall' presently revive thee. 
To your will I then comply ; 
Join us, priest, and let me try. 
How I'll wi' a guidman lie, 

Wha can a cordial gie me. 



GALLOWAY TAM. 

I H.WE seen an interlude (acted oii 
a wedding) to this tune, called " Tho 
Wooing of the Maiden." These en^ 
tertainments are now much worn out 
in this part of Scotland. Two are still 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



837 



retaintd in Nitlisdale, viz», " Silly 
Puir Auld Qlenae," and this one, "The 
Wooing of the Maiden. " 

Oh, Galloway Tarn cam here to woo, 
We'd better tiac gien him the bawsent cow, 
For our lass Bess may curse and ban 
The wanton wit o' Galloway Tam. 
A cannie tongue and a glance fu' gleg, 
A buirdly back and a lordly leg, 
A heart like a fox and a look like a lamb — 
Oh, these are the marks o' Galloway Tam. 

Oh, Galloway Tam came here to shear. 
We'd better hae gien him the guid gray 

meare, [guidman. 

He kiss'd the gudewife and he dang'd the 
And these are the tricks o' Galloway Tam. 
He owed the kirk a twalmonth's score. 
And he doff'd his bonnet at the door ; 
The loon cried out wha sung the psalm, 
"There's room on the stool for Galloway 

Tam !•' 

Ye lasses o' Galloway, frank and fair, 
Tak tent o' yer hearts and something mair ; 
And bar your doors, your windows steek, 
For he comes stealing like night and sleep : 
Oh. nought frae Tam but wae ye'll win. 
He 11 sing ye dumb and he'll dance ye blin' ; 
And aff youi balance he'll cowp ye then — 
Tak tent o' the deil and Galloway Tam. 

" Sir," quoth Mess John, '' the wanton deil 

Has put his birn "boon gospel kiel. 

And bound yere cloots in his black ban' :" 

" For mercy loos't !" quo' Galloway Tam. 

" In our kirk-fauld we maun ye bar. 

And smear your fleece wi' covenant tar, 

And pettle ye up a dainty lamb," — 

*' Among the yowes," quo' Galloway Tam. 

Eased of a twalmonth's graceless deeds, 

He gaylie doff'd his sackloth weeds, 

And 'mang the maidens he laughing cam' — 

"Tak tent o' your hearts" quo' Galloway 

A cannie tongue and a glance fu' gleg, [Tam. 

A buirdly back and a lordly leg, 

A heart like a fox, and a look like a lamb — 

Oh, these are the marks o' Galloway Tam. 



AS I CAM DOWN BY YON 
CASTLE WA'. 

This is a very popular Ayrshire 
song. 

As I cam down by yon castle wa', 

And in by yon garden green. 
Oh, there I spied a bonny bonny lass. 

But the flower-borders were us between. 

A bonny, bonny lassie she was. 

As ever mine eyes did see ; 
Oh, five hundred pounds would I give 

For to have such a pretty bride as thee. 

To have such a pretty bride as me, 
Young man ye are sairly mista'en ; 



Though ye were king o' fair Scotland, 
I wad disdain to be your queen. 

Talk not so very high, bonny lass, 
Oh, talk not so very, very high: 

The man at the fair, that wad sell, 
He maun learn at the man that wad bvj* 

I trust to climb a far higher tree, 

And herry a far richer nest. 
Tak this advice o' me, bonny lass. 

Humility wad set thee best. 



LORD RONALD, MY SON. 
This air, a very favourite one in 
Ayrshire, is evidently the original of 
Lochaber. In this manner most of our 
finest more modern airs have had their 
origin. Some early minstrel, or musi- 
cal shepherd, composed the simple art- 
less original airs; which being picked 
up by the more learned musician took 
the improved form they bear. 



O'ER THE MOOR AMANG THE 
HEATHER. 

This song is the composition of Jean 
Glover, a girl who was not only a 
whore but also a thief, and in one or 
other character has visited most of the 
correction houses in the West. She 
was born, I believe, in Kilmarnock. — 
I took the song down, from her sing- 
ing, as she was strolling through the 
country with a sleight-of-hand black- 
guard. 

Comin' through the craigs o' Kyle, 
Amang the bonny blooming heather. 
There I met a bonny lassie. 
Keeping a' her yowes thegither. 

O'er the moor amang the heather. 
O'er the moor amang the heather. 
There I met a bonny lassie. 
Keeping a' her yowes thegither. 

Says I, my dearie, where is thy hame, 
In moor or dale, pray tell me whether? 
She says, I tent the fleecy flocks 
That feed amang the blooming heather. 

We laid us down upon a bank, 
Sae warm and sunny was the weather. 
She left her flocks at large to rove 
Amang the bonny blooming heather. 

While thus we lay she sang a sang. 
Till echo rang a mile and farther, 
And aye the burden o' the sang 
Was o'er the moor amang the heatktJ. 



rs 



BtTH^^g' WORKS. 



She charm d my heart, and aye sinsyne^ 
I couldna think on ony ither ; 
By sea and sky she shall be mine ! 
The bonny lass amang the heather. 



TO THE ROSEBUD 

This song is the composition of one 
Johnson, a joiner in the neighborhood 
of Belfast. The tune is by Oswald, 
altered, evidently, from "Jockie's 
Gray Breeks." 

All hail to thee, thou bawmy bud, 
Thou charming child o' simmer, hail ; 
Ilk fragrant thorn and lofty wood 
Does nod thy welcome to the vale. 

See on thy lovely taulded form. 
Glad Phoebus smiles wi' cheering eye, 
While on thy head the dewy morn 
Has shed the tears o' silent joy. 

The tuneful tribes frae yonder bower 
Wi' sangs o' joy thy presence hail : 
Then haste, thou bawmy, fragrant flower, 
And gie thy bosom to the gale. 

And see the fair, industrious bee. 
With airy wheel and soothing hum, 
Flies ceaseless round thy parent tree, 
While gentle breezes, trembling, come. 

If ruthless Liza pass this way. 
She'll pu' thee frae thy thorny stem • 
A while thou'lt grace her virgin breast, 
But soon thou'lt fade, my bonny gem. 

Ah '. short, too short, thy rural reign. 
And yield to fate, alas ! thou must ; 
Bright emblem of the virgin train. 
Thou blooms, alas ! to mix wi' dust. 

"Sae bonny Liza hence may learn, 
Wi' every youthfu' maiden gay. 
That beauty, like the simmer's rose. 
In time shall wither and decay. 



THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER 
FALL. 
This song of genius was composed 
by a Miss Cranstoun.* It wanted four 
lines to make all the stanzas suit the 
music, which I added, and are the 
first four of the last stanza. 



* She was the sister of George Cranstoun, 
one of the senators of the College of Justice 
in Scotland, and became the second wife of 
the celebrated Professor Dugald Stewart, 
whom she outlived for many years, having 
died in July, 1838, at the age of seventy-one. 



The tears I«Bhed must ever fall ; / 

I weep not for an absent swain. 
For time can past delights recall. 

And parted lovers meet again. 
I weep not for the silent dead, 

Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er. 
And those they loved their steps shall tread 

And death shall join, to part no more. 

Though boundless oceans roll between. 

If certain that his heart is near, 
A conscious transport glads the scene. 

Soft is the sigh, and sweet the tear. 
E'en when by death's cold hand remov«<| 

We mourn the tenant of the tomb. 
To think that even in death he loved, 

Can cheer the terrors of the gloom. 

But bittev, bitter is the tear 

Of her who slighted love bewails; 
No hopes her gloomy prospect cheer. 

No pleasing melancholy hails. 
Hers are the pangs of wounded pride, 

Of blasted nope, and wither'd joy ; 
The prop she lean'd on pierced her side, 

The flame she fed burns to destroy. 

In vain does memory renew 

The scenes once tinged in transport's dyt ; 
The sad reverse soon meets the view. 

And turns the thought to agony. 
Even conscious virtue cannot cure 

The pangs to every feeling due ; 
Ungenerous youth, thy boast how poor 

To steal a heart, and break it too ? 

No cold approach^ no alter' d mien^ 

Just what would make suspicion start: 
No pause the dire extremes between^ — 

He made me blest , and broke »iy heart i 
Hope from its only anchor torn. 

Neglected, and neglecting all. 
Friendless, forsaken, anil forlorn. 

The tears I shed must ever fall. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 

This song, tradition says, and the 
composition itself confirms it, was com- 
posed on the Rev. David Williamson'^g 
begetting the daughter of Lady Cherry- 
trees with child, while a party of 
dragoons were searching her house to 
apprehend him for being an adherent 
to the solemn league and covenant. 
The pious woman had put a lady's 
nightcap on him, and had laid him 
abed with her own daughter, and 
passed him to the soldiery as a lady, 
her daughter's bedfellow. A muti- 
lated stanza or two are to be found in 
Herd's collection, but the original song 
consists of five or six stanzas; and were 
their delicacy equals to their wit and 
humour, they would merit a place 'v\ 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



m 



any collection. The first stanza is as 
follows: — 

Bein^ pursued by the dragoons, 
Within my bed he was laid down ; 
And weel I wat he was worth his room, 
For he was my dainty Davie. 

Ramsay's song, "Lucky Nansy," 
though he calls it an old song with 
additions, seems to be all his own, ex- 
cept the chorus: 

I was aye telling you, 
Lucky Nansy, lucky Nansy, 
Auld springs wad ding the new, 
But ye wad never trow me. 

Which I should conjecture to be part 
of a song, prior to the affair of Wil- 
liamson. 

The following is the version of "Lucky 
Nansy," by Ramsay, of which the poet 
speaks :— 

While fops, in soft Italian verse, 
Ilk fair ane's een and breast rehearse. 
While sangs abound, and sense is scarce. 

These lines I have indicted : 
But neither darts nor arrows here, 
Venus nor Cupid shall appear, 
And yet with these fine sounds I swear. 

The maidens are delighted. 

I was aye telling you. 
Lucky Nansy, lucky Nansy, 
Auld springs wad ding the new, 
But ye wad never trow me. 

Nor snaw with crimson will I mix, 
To spread upon my lassie's cheeks. 
And syne th' unmeaning name prefix, 

Miranda, Chloe, Phillis. 
I'll fetch nae smile from Jove 
My height of ecstasy to prove. 
Nor sighing, thus present my love 

With roses eke and lilies. 

I was aye telling you, &c. 

But stay— I had amaist forgot 
My mistress, and my sang to boot. 
And iha;'s an unco faut, 1 wot: 

But, Nansy, 'tis nae matter. 
Ye see, I clink my verse wi' rhyme. 
And, ken ye, that atones the crime ; 
Forbye, how sweet my numbers chime, 

And slide away like water ! 

I was aye telling you, &c. 

Now ken, my reverend sonsy fair. 
Thy runUed cheeks and lyari hair. 



Thy haff-shut een and hod ling air» 

Are a' my passion's fuel. 
Nae skyring gowk, my dear, earn see, 
Or love, or grace, or heaven in thee ; 
Yet thou hast charms enow for me. 

Then smile, and be na cruel. 

Leeze me on thy snawy powr, 
Lucky Nansy, lucky Nansy ; 
Dryest wood will eithest low, 
And, Nansy, sae will ye now. 

Troth I have sung the sang to you. 
Which ne'er anither bard wad do ; 
Hear, then, my charitable vow, 

Dear, venerable Nansy. 
But if the warld my passion wrang, 
And say ye only live in sang. 
Ken, I despise a slandering tongue. 

And sing to please my fancy. 
Leeze me on thy, &c. 



BOB O' DUNBLANE. 

Ramsay, as usual, has modernised 
this song. The original, which i 
learned on the spot from my old host 
ess in the principal inn there, is: — 

Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle, 
And I'll lend you my thripplin-kame ; 

My heckle is broken, it canna be gotten, 
And we'll gae dance the bob o' Dunblane. 

Twa gaed to the wood, to the wood, to the 
wood, 
Twa gaed to the wood— three came hame ; 
An it be na weel bobbit, weel bobbit, weel 
bobbit. 
An it be na weel bobbit, we'll bob it again. 

I insert this song to introduce the 
following anecdote, which I have 
heard well authenticated: — In the 
evening of the day of the battle of 
Dunblane, ( Sheriff-Muir, ) when the 
action was over, a Scots officer in 
Argyle's army observed to his Grace 
that he was afraid the rebels would 
give out to the world that thei/ had 
gotten the victory. — *' Weel, weel," 
returned his Grace, alluding to the 
foregoing ballad , " if they think it b9 
na weel bobbit, we'll bob it agaia." 



/ 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



The letters of Robert Burns, extending as they do over the pfreater portion of his life, 
»nd written under the influence of the varying feelings of the moment, are most valuable in 
leading us to form a true estimate of the man. Much there undoubtedly is in them which is 
stilted and unreal ; but against this there is much that illustrates his genius, his sturdy inde- 
pendence, nis strong common sense, and vtvid perceptions of men and things. From the very 
first he seems to have had a strong sense of his extraordinary endowments ; and as his friends 
about him endorsed his own opinion, and the circle of his admirers extended, we see from his 
letters how much his humble position and the obscurity of his life chafed his spirit— we see 
how, when he had become the most famous man in his country-side, and when his wonderful 
talents were beginning to attract the attention of the great world of which he knew so httle, 
his own irregularities seemed to pieclude the hope that ever he would' be able to take advan- 
tage of his great gifts, or the recognition which awaited them— we see how, in the full tri- 
umph of his Edinburgh success, with all that was greatest and best in his country doing him 
honour, his hopes rose high— we follow him throughout his wanderings in his dearly-loved 
native land, perhaps the happiest period of his life,. and throughout the too brief days of his 
success, when a life of independence seemed to be before him— alas ! never to be realised: 
and almost the last, letter he ever wrote leaves him dying broken in heart and broken in his 
fortunes, begging from a relation a ten-pound note to save him from the anticipated horrors 
of a jail. During his lifetime, and at his death, his character was fiercely assailed. More than 
sixty years afterwards, at the time of the Centenary celebrations in honour of his memory, 
much was said and written by certain of his countrymen as to the grossness of his life. We 
may, we. think, venture to state here, that to the more charitable among his countrymen, the 
Wholesale condemnation of Burns as a libertine and blasphemer in certain quarters, gave rise 
to much surprise and astonishment. It seems to us that in the poetry and correspondence of 
Burns, we have the most remarkable instance in modern times, of a man of genius laying bare 
his whole heart and mind to his countrymen. Had he lived in some large city, where the 
private doings of even a celebrated man escape general notice, the occasion for alluding to 
the dark side of his life would never have occurred to him, and possibly there would have been 
fewer slips from the path of rectitude to chronicle, for there was much in Burns' temperament 
w^hich led him to defy his censors, and seems almost to have led him into sin in sheer con- 
tempt of petty censors, who were so much his inferiors in intellectual endowments. To those 
who know anything of the lives of literary men of our own day, where all is so fair outside, 
there will be no difficulty in finding parallels— with this much in favour of the poet, that we 
know from his poems and correspondence, that under all his seeming contempt for the pro- 
prieties, shame and contrition were gnawing at his vitals ; and while presbyteries, kirk-ses- 
sions, and the " unco guid" who were busy with his doings, were being made the victims of 
his wild and daring humour, he was suffering through his own accusing conscience the pun- 
ishnjent which awaits every true and honest man, who, knowing what is right, is tempted of 
the devil and his own evil passions, and is worsted in the conflict. The man who reads 
attentively his poems and correspondence, and all that has been written and said of him by 
his contemporaries, must be of a purity which will find itself sadly out of place in a sinful 
world, even at the present day, if he can find it in his heart to judge him by the common 
standards. His letters, while they add to our high estimate of the genius and ability of the 
poet, show us that he was the constant correspondent and intimate friend of the men and 
women of talent and position in his own district, where his frailties were known to all — and 
this before he was known beyond his own locality, and was as yet unstamped by the approval 
of a general or metropolitan audience. This alone should convince the most censorious, that 
he was something higher and better than the dissolute and reckless man of genius many wish 
to consider him. Let us hear no more accusations against him, and no more apologies for him. 
Let us think of him with deep sympathy for his errors and misfortunes ; let us think of the 
manliness and uprightness which never failed him throughout many worldly cares and trials ; 
and let us be proud of him, for in his works we have the highest manifestation of true "poetic 
genius" our country has yet known. 

We quote the criticisms of several of the more eminent of his countrymen as to the value 
of his correspondence : — 

Professor Wilson says, " The letters of Burns are said to be too elaborate, the expressloa 
more studied and artificial than belongs to that species of composition. Now tha truth i^ 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 341 

Burns never considered letter writing ' a species of composition,' subject to certain rules of 
taste and criticism. That had never occurred to him, and so much the better. But hundreds, 
even of his most familiar letters, are perfectly artless, though still most eloquent, composi- 
tions. Simple we may not call them, so rich are they in fancy, so overtlovving in feeling, and 
dashed off every other paragraph with the easy boldness of a great master conscious of his 
strength, even at times when, of all things in the world, he was least solicitous about display: 
while some there are so solemn, so sacred, so religious, that he who can read them with an 
unstiried heart can have no trust, no hope, in the immortality of the soul." 

Lockhart observes, " From the time that Burns settled himself in Dumfriesshire, he ap>- 
pears to have conducted with much care the extensive correspondence in which his celebrity 
nad engaged him ; it is, however, very necessary in judging of these letters, and drawing in- 
ferences from their language as to the real sentiments and opinions of the writer, to take into 
consideration the rank and character of the persons to whom they were severally addressed, 
and the measure of intimacy which really subsisted between them and the poet. In his let- 
ters, as in his conversation, Burns, in spite of all his pride, did something to accommodate 
himself to his company ; and he wlio did write the series of letters addressed to Mrs. Dunlop, 
Dr. Moore, Mr. Dugald Stewart, Miss Chalmers, and others, eminently distinguished as these 
are by purity and nobleness of feeling, and perfect propriety of language, presents himself, in 
other effusions of the same class, in colours which it would be rash to call his own. That he 
should have condescended to any such compliance must be regretted ; but, in most cases, it 
would probably be quite unjust to push our censure further than this." 

Professor Walker says, >' The prose writings of Burns consist almost solely of his corre- 
spondence, and are therefore to be considered as presenting no sufficient criterion of his powers. 
Epistolary effusions, being a sort of written conversation, participate in many of the advan- 
tages and defects o^discourse. They materially vary, both in subject and manner, with the 
character of the person addressed, to which the mind of their author for the moment assumes 
an affinity. To equals they are familiar and negligent, and to superiors they can scarcely 
avoid that transition to careful effort and studied correctness, which the behavior of the writer 
would undergo, when entering the presence of those to whom his talents were his only intro- 
duction. Burns, from the lowness of his origin, found himself inferior in rank to all his cor- 
respondents, except his father and brother ; and, although the superiority of his genius should 
have done more than correct this disparity of condition, yet between pretensions so incom- 
mensurable it is difficult to produce a perfect equality. Burns evidently labours to reason 
himself mto a feeling of its completeness, but the very frequency of his efforts betrays his dis- 
satisfaction with their success, and he may therefore be considered as writing under the influ- 
ence of a desire to create or to preserve the admiration of his correspondents. In this object 
he must certainly have succeeded ; for, if his letters are deficient in some of the charms of 
epistolary writing, the deficiency is supplied by others. If they occasionally fail in colloquial 
ease and simplicity, they abound in genius, in richness of sentiment, and strength of expres- 
sion. The taste of Burns, according to the judgment of Professor Stewart, was not sufficient- 
ly correct and refined to relish chaste and artless prose, but was captivated by writers who 
labour their periods into a pointed and antithetical brilliancy. What he preferred he would 
naturally be ambitious to imitate ; and though he might have chosen better models, yet those 
which were his choice he has imitated with success. Even in poetry, if we may judge from 
his few attempts in English heroic measure, he was as far from attaining, and perhaps from 
desiring to attain, the flowing sweetness of Goldsmith, as he is in his letters from aiming at 
the graceful ease of Addison, or the severe simplicity of Swift. Burns in his prose seems 
never to have forgot that he was a poet ; but though his style may be taxed with occasional 
luxuriance, and with the admission of crowded and even of compounded epithets, few will 
deny that genius is displayed in their invention and application, as few will deny that there is 
eloquence in the harangue of an Indian sachem, although it be not in the shape to which we 
are accustomed, nor prfined of its flowers by the critical exactness of a British orator. 

"■ It is to be observed, however, that Burns could diversify his style with great address to 
suit the taste of his various correspondents : and that when he occasionally swells it into dec- 
lamation, or stiffens it into pedantry, it is for the amusement of an individual whom he knew 
it would amuse, and should not be mistaken for the style which he thought most proper for 
the public. The letter to his father, for whom he had a deep veneration, and of whose ap- 
plause he was no doubt desirous, is written with care, but with no exuberance. It is grave, 
pious, and gloomy, like the mind of the person who was to receive it. In his correspondence 
with Dr. Blair, Mr. Stewart, Mr. Graham, and Mr. Erskine, his style has a respectful propri- 
ety and a regulated vigour, which show a just conception of what became himself and suited 
his relation with the persons whom he addressed. He writes to Mr. Nichol in a vein of strong 
and ironical extravagance, which was congenial to the manner, and adapted to the taste, of 
his friend. To his female correspondents, without excepting the venerable Mrs. Dunlop, he 
is lively, and sometimes romantic ; and a skilful critic may perceive his pen under the influ- 
ence of that tenderness for the feminine character which has been already noticed. In short, 
through the whole collection, we see various sliades of gravity and care, or of sportive pomp 
and intentional affectation according to the familiarity which subsisted between the writer 
and the person for whose exclusive perusal he wrote : and before we estimate the merit of 
any single letter, we should know the character of both correspondents, and the measure of 
their intimacy. These remarks are suggested by the objections of a distinguished critic to n 



342 BURKS' WORKS. 

— — ___^ 

letter which was communicated to Mr. Cromek, without its address, by the author of thij 
critique, and which occurs in the ' Reliques of Burns.' The censure w^uld perhaps have been 
softened had the critic been aware that the timidity which he blames was n sen -us attempt 
at fine writing, but merely a playful effusion in mock-heroic, to aivert a friend wh^m he had 
formerly succeeded in diverting with similar sallies. Burns was sometimes happy in short 
complimentary addresses, of which a specimen is subjoined. It is inscribed on the blank-leaf 
of a book presented to Mrs. Graham of Fintray, from which it was copied, by that lady's per- 

' TO MRS. GRAHAM OF FINTRAY. 

' It is probable, Madam, that this page may be read when the hand that now writes it 
»hall be mouldering in the dust ; may it then bear witness that I present you these volumes as 
a tribute of gratitude, on my part ardent and sincere, as your and Mr. Graham's goodness to 
me has been generous and noble ! May every child of yours, in the hour of need, find such n ' 
friend as I shall teach every child of mine that their father found in you. 

' Robert Burns.' 

" The letters of Burns may on the whole be regarded as a valuable offering to the public. 
They are curious, as evidences of his genius, and interesting, as keys to his character ; and 
they can scarcely fail to command the admiration of all who do not measure their pretensions 
by an unfair standard." 

" The prose works of Burns," says Jeffrey, "consist almost entirely of his letters. They 
bear, as well as his poetry, the seal and ^impress of his genius ; but they contain much more 
bad taste, and are written with far mftfe apparent labour. His poetry was almost all written 
primarily from feeling, and only secondarily from ambition. His letters seem to have been 
nearly all composed as exercises, and for display. There are few of them written with sim- 
plicity or plainness : and, though natural enough as to the sentiment, they are, generally, very 
strained and elaborate in the expression. A very great proportion of them, too, relate neither 
to facts nor feelings peculiarly connected with the author or his correspondent, but are made 
up of general declamation, moral reflections, and vague discussions— all evidently composed 
for the sake of effect." 

Readers of the present day will more readily endorse the opinion of Cunningham, who 
says, " In the critic's almost wholesale condemnation of the prose of Burns, the world has not 
roncurred : he sins somewhat, indeed, in the spirit of Jeffrey's description, but his errors are 
neither so serious nor so frequent as has been averred. In truth, his prose partakes largely oi 
the character of his poetry : there is the same earnest vehemence of lauguage : the same 
happy quickness of perception: the same mixture of the solemn with the sarcastic, and the 
humourous with the tender ; and the presence everywhere of that ardent and penetrating 
spirit which sheds light and communicates importance to all it touches. He is occasionally 
turgid, it is true ; neither is he so simple and unaffected in prose as he is in verse : but this is 
more the fault of his education than of his taste. His daily language was the dialect of his 
native land ; and in that he expressed himself with almost miraculous clearness and precision : 
the language of his verse corresponds with that of his conversation : but the etiquette of his 
day required his letters to be in English ; and in that, to him, almost foreign tongue, he now 
and then moved with little ease or grace. Yet though a peasant, and labouring to express 
himself in a language alien to his lips, his letters yield not in interest to those of the ripest 
scholars of the age. He wants the colloquial ease of Cowper, but he is less minute and tedi- 
ous ; he lacks the withering irony of Byron, but he has more humour, and infinitely less of 
tbat ' pribble prabble ' which deforms the noble lord's correspondence and memoranda," 



No. I. I for some other little reasons wliich I 

TO WILLIAM BURNESS. ^^^^^ ^f ^i^^ ^* meeting. My health 

x^ ^xxxxx ±jyjx,.x^xu^^. IS nearly the same as when you were 

Irvine, Dec, 27, 1771. here, only my sleep is a little sounder, 

HoNOUKED Sir, — I have purposely and on the whole I am rather better 

delayed writing, in the hope that I than otherwise, though I mend by very 

should have the pleasure of seeing you slow degrees. The weakness of my 

on new-year's day; but work comes so nerves has so debilitated my mind that 

hard upon us that I do not choose to I dare neither revieiv past wants, nor 
Ve absent on that account, as well as J look forward into futurity; for theleasi 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



m 



ftnxiety or perturbation In my breast 
produces most unhappy effects on my 
whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, 
when for an hour or two my spirits are 
alightened, 1 glimmer a, little into 
futurity; but my principal, and indeed 
my only pleasurable, employment, is 
looking backwards and forwards in a 
moral and religious way; I am quite 
transported at the thought that ere 
long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an 
eternal adieu to all the pains, and un- 
easiness, and disquietudes of this 
weary life; for I assure you I am 
heartily tired of it; and, if I do not 
very much deceive myself, I could con- 
tentedly and gladly resign it. 

"The soul, uneasy, and confined at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come." 

It is for this reason I am more pleased 
with the 15th, 16th, and 17tli verses of 
the 7th chapter of Revelations than 
with any ten times as many verses in 
the whole Bible, and would not ex- 
change the noble enthusiasm with 
which they inspire me, for all that this 
world has to offer. As for this world, 
I despair of ever making a figure in it. 
I am not formed for the bustle of the 
busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall 
never again be capable of entering into 
such scenes. Indeed, I am altogether 
unconcerned at the thoughts of this 
life. T foresee that poverty and obscu- 
rity probably await me, and I am in 
some measure prepared, and daily pre- 
paring to meet them. I have but just 
time and paper to return you my grate- 
ful thanks for the lessons of virtue 
and piety you have given me, which 
were too much neglected at the time 
of giving them, but which I hope have 
been remembered ere it is yet too late. 
Present my dutiful respects to my 
mother, and my compliments to Mr. 
and Mrs. Muir; and wishing you a 
merry new-year's day, I shall conclude. 
—I am, honoured sir, your dutiful 
|Pn, 

Robert Burness.* 



♦ At this time Burns was working as a heck- 
ler, (a dresser q^ ilai;v.) A few days after, the 
workshop was burnt to the ground, and he 
bad to begin the world anew, -^ 



P. S.. — ^My meal is nearly out, but I 
am going to borrow till I get more. 

No. II. 

TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH. 

SCHOOLMASTER, 

STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 
LocHLEA, Jan. 15, 1783. 

Dear Sir, — As I have an oppor- 
tunity of sending you a letter without 
putting you to that expense which any 
production of mine would but ill re- 
pay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell 
you that I have not forgotten, nor ever 
will forget, the many obligations I lie 
under to your kindness and friendship. 

I do not doubt, sir, but you will wish 
to know what has been the result of 
all the pains of an indulgent father, 
and a masterly teacher; and I wish I 
could gratify your curiosity with such 
a recital as you would be pleased with: 
but that is what I am afraid will not 
be the case. I have, indeed, kept 
pretty clear of vicious habits; and in 
this respect, I hope my conduct will 
not disgrace the education I have got- 
ten, but as a man of the world I am 
most miserably deficient. One would 
have thought that, bred as I have 
been, under a father who has figured 
pretty well as un homme des affaires, 
I might have been what the world 
calls a pushing, active fellow; but to 
tell you the truth, sir, there is hardly 
anything more my reverse. I seem 
to be one sent into the world to see 
and observe; and I very easily com- 
pound with the knave who tricks me 
of my money, if there be anything 
original about him, which shows me 
human nature in a different light from 
anything I have seen before. In 
short, the joy of my heart is to "study 
men, their manners, and their ways," 
and for this darling subject I cheer- 
fully sacrifice every other considera- 
tion. I am quite indolent about those 
great concerns that set the bustling, 
busy sons of care agog ; and if 1 have 
to answer for the present hour, I am 
very easy with regard to anything im* 



844 



BURNS' WORKS. 



ther. Even the last, worst shift of 
the unfortunate and the wretched* does 
not much terrify me. I know that 
even then my talent for what country- 
folks call "a sensible crack," when 
once it is sanctified by a hoary head, 
would procure me" so much esteem 
that even then I would learn to be 
happy. However, I am under no 
an prehensions about that; for though 
inaolent, yet so far as an extremely 
delicate constitution permits, I am not 
lazy; and in many things, especially 
in tavern matters, I am a strict econo- 
mist,-^not, indeed, for the sake of the 
money, but one of the principal parts 
in my composition is a kind of pride of 
stomach; and I scorn to fear the face 
of any man living: above everything, 
I abhor as hell the idea of sneaking 
into a corner to avoid a dun — possibly 
some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in 
my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis 
this, and this alone, that endears econ- 
omy to me. In the matter of books, 
indeed, I am very profuse. My favour- 
ite authors are of the sentimental 
kind, such as Shenstone, particularly 
his ''Elegies;" Thomson; "Man of 
Feeling," — ^a book I prize next to the 
Bible; "Man of the World;" Sterne, 
«5specially his " Sentimental Journey," 
Macpherson's "Ossian," &c. ; — these 
are the glorious models after which I 
endeavour to form my conduct; and 
'tis incongruous, 'tis absurd, to suppose 
that the man whose mind glows with 
sentiments lighted up at their sacred 
flame — the man whose heart distends 
with benevolence to all the human 
race — he " who can soar above this 
little scene of things" — can descend to 
mind the paltry concerns about which 
the terrae-filial race fret, and fume, and 
vex themselves ! Oh, how the glorious 
triumph swells my heart ! I forget that I 
am a poor, insignificant devil, unnoticed 
and unknown, stalking up and down 
fairs and markets, when 1 happen to 
be in them, reading a page or two of 
mankind, and " catching the manners 
living as they rise," whilst the men of 



* The last shift alluded to here must be the 
condition of an itinerant beggar.— Currie. 



business jostle me on every side, as a« 
idle encumbrance in their way. But I 
daresay 1 have by this time tired your 
patience; so I shall conclude with beg- 
ging yoti to give Mrs. Murdoch — not 
my compliments, for that is a mere 
commonplace s^tory, but my warmest, 
kindest wishes for her welfare; and 
accept of the same for yourself, froin^ 
dear sir, yours, 

R. B. 



No. III. 

TO . MR. JAMES BURNESS, 

WRITER, MONTROSE.* 

LocHLEA, June 21, 1783. 

Dear Sir, — My father received your 
favour of the 10th current, and as he 
has been for some months very poorly 
in health, and is in his own opinion 
(and, indeed, in almost every-body'3 
else) in a dying condition, ho has only, 
with great difficulty, written a few 
farewell lines to each of his brothers- 
in-law. For this melancholy reason, 
I now hold the pen for him to thank 
you for your kind letter, and to assure 
you, sir,' that it shall not be my fault 
if my father's correspondence in the 
north die with him. My brother 
writes to John Caird, and to him I 
must refer you for the news of our 
family. 

I shall only trouble you with a few- 
particulars relative to the wretched 
state of this country. Our markets are 
exceedingly high; oatmeal, 17d. and 
18d. per peck, and not to be got even 



* This gentleman, (the son of an elder 
brother of my father,) when he was verr 
young, lost his parent, and having discovered 
in his repositories some of my father's letters^ 
he requested that the correspondence might 
be renewed. My father continued till the 
last year of his life to correspond with his 
nephew, and it was afterwards kept up by my 
brother. Extracts from some of my brother s 
letters to his cousin are introduced in this edi- 
tion for the purpose of exhibiting the poet be* 
fore he had attracted the notice of the public, 
and in his domestic family relations after- 
wards. — Gilbert Burns. 

He was grandfather of Sir Alexandef 
Burnes, author of *' Travels in Bokhara." 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



34!5 



at that price. We have indeed been 
pretty well supplied with quantities of 
white pease from England and else- 
where, but that resource is likely to 
fail us, and what will become of us 
then, particularly the very poorest 
Bort, Heaven only knows. This 
country, till of late, was flourishing 
incredibly in the manufacture of 
Silk, lawn, and carpet weaving; and 
we are still carrying on a good deal in 
that way, but much reduced from 
what it was. We had also a fine trade 
in the shoe way, but now entirely 
ruined, and hundreds driven to a 
starving condition on account of it. 
Farming is also at a very low ebb with 
us. Our lands, generally speaking, 
are mountainous and barren; and our 
landholders, full of ideas of farming, 
gathered from the English and the 
Lothians, and other rich soils in Scot- 
land, make no allowance for the odds 
of the quality of land, and consequently' 
stretch us much beyond what in the 
event we will be found able to pay. 
We are also much at a loss for want 
of proper methods in our improve- 
ments of farming. Necessity compels 
us to leave our old schemes, and few 
of us have opportunities of being well 
informed in new ones. In short, my 
dear sir, since the unfortunate begin- 
ning of this American war, and its as 
unfortunate conclusion, this country 
has been, and still is, decaying very 
fast. Even in higher life, a couple of 
Ayrshire noblemen, and the major 
part of our knights and squires, are all 
Insolvent. A miserable job of a 
Douglas, Heron, & Co.'s bank, which 
tio doubt you heard of, has undone 
numbers of them; and imitating Eng- 
lish and French, and other foreign 
luxuries and fopperies, has ruined as 
many more. There is a great trade of 
smuggling carried on along our coasts, 
whicl^ however destructive to the in- 
tere»C^ of the kingdom at large, cer- 
tainly enriches this corner of it, but 
too often at the expense of our morals. 
However, it enables individuals to 
make, at least for a time, a splendid 
appearance; but Fortune, as is usual 
with her when she is uncommonly 



lavish of her favours. Is generally 
even with them at the last; and happy 
were it for numbers of them if she 
would leave them no worse than when 
she found them. 

My mother sends you a small present 
of a cheese ; 'tis but a very little one, 
as our last year's stock is sold off; but 
if you could fix on any correspondent 
in Edinburgh or Glasgow, we would 
send you a proper one in the season. 
Mrs. Black promises to take the cheese 
under her care so far, and then to send 
it to you by the Stirling carrier. 

I shall conclude this long letter with 
assuring you that I shall be very happy 
to hear from you, or any of our friends 
in your country, when opportunity 
serves. 

My father sends you, probably for 
the last time in this world, his 
warmest wishes for your welfare and 
happiness; and my mother and the 
rest of the family desire to enclose 
their kind compliments to you, Mrs. 
Burness, and the rest of your family, 
along with those of, dear sir, your 
affectionate cousin, R. B. 



No. IV. 
TO MISS ELIZA .* 

Loch LEA, 1783 
I VERILY believe, my dear Eliza, 
that the pure genuine feelings of love 
are as rare in the world as the pure 
genuine principles of virtue and piety. 
This 1 hope will account for the un- 
common style of all my letters to you. 
By uncommon, I mean their being 
written in such a hasty manner, which, 
to tell you the truth, has made me often 
afraid lest you should take me for 
some zealous bigot, who conversed 
with his mistress as he would converse 
with his minister. I don't know how 
it is, my dear, for though, except 
your company, there is nothing on 
earth gives me so much pleasure as 

* The name of the lady to whom this and 
the three succeeding letters were addressed 
was Ellison Begbie. She was a superior ser- 
vant in the family of Mr. Montgomery 0/ 
Colisfield— hence a song addressed to her, 
" Montgomery's Peg^y."— See p. 15^3, 



846 



BURNS' WOIlK:^. 



•writing to you, yet it never gives 
me those giddy raptures so much 
talked of among lovers. I have 
often thought that if a well-grounded 
affection be not really a part of virtue, 
'tis something extremely akin to it. 
Whenever the thought of my Eliza 
smarms my heart, every feeling of Im- 
inanity, every principle of generosity 
kindles in my breast. It extinguishes 
every dirty spark of malice and envy 
•which are but too apt to infest me. I 
grasp every creature in the arms of 
universal benevolence, and equally 
participate in the pleasures of the 
happy, and sympathise with the miser- 
ies of the unfortunate. I assure you, 
my dear, I often look up to the Divine 
Disposer of events with an eye of grati- 
tude for the blessing which I hope He 
intends to bestow on me in bestowing 
you. I sincerely wish that He may 
bless my endeavours to make your life 
as comfortable and happy as possible, 
both in sweetening the rougher parts 
of my natural temper, and bettering the 
unkindly circumstances of my fortune. 
This, my dear, is a passion, at least in 
my view, worthy of a man, and I will 
add worthy of a Christian. The sordid 
earthworm may profess love to a 
woman's person, whilst in reality his 
affection is centred in her pocket; and 
the slavish drudge may go a- wooing as 
he goes to the horse-market to choose 
one who is stout and firm, and, as we 
may say of an old horse, one who will 
be a good drudge and draw kindly. I 
disdain their dirty, puny ideas. I 
would be heartily out of humour with 
myself, if I thought I were capable of 
having so poor a notion of the sex 
which was designed to crown the 
pleasures of society. Poor devils ! I 
don't envy them their happiness who 
have such notions. For my part I pro- 
pose quite other pleasures with my 
dear partner. R. B. 



No. V. 
TO THE SAME. 

LOCHLEA, 1783. 

My dear Eliza, — I do not remem- 
ber, m tlie course of your acq,uaintauce 



and mine, ever to have heard youl 
opinion on the ordinary way of falling 
in love amongst people in our station 
in life; 1 do not mean the persons who 
proceed in the way of bargain, but 
those whose affection is really placed 
on the person. 

Though I be, as you know very well, 
but a very awkward lover myself, yet 
as I have some opportunities of obser I 
ving the conduct of others who art I 
much better skilled in the affair of 
courtship than I am, I often think it 
is owing to lucky chance, more than to 
good management, that there are not 
more unhappy marriages than usually 
are. 

It is natural for a young fellow to 
like the acquaintance of the females, 
and customary for him to keep them 
company when occasion serves : some 
one of them is more agreeable to him 
than the rest ; there is something, he 
knows not what, pleases him, he knows 
not how, in her company. This I take 
to be what is called love with the 
greater part of us; and I must own, my 
dear Eliza, it is a hard game such a 
one as you have to play when you meet 
with such a lover. You cannot refuse 
but he is sincere; and yet though you 
use him ever so favourably, perhaps in 
a few months, or at furthest in a year 
or two, the same unaccountable fan- 
cy may make him as distractedly fond 
of another, whilst you are quite forgot. 
I am aware that perhaps the next time 
I have the pleasure of seeing you, you 
may bid me take my own lesson home, 
and tell me that the passion I have pro- 
fessed for you is perhaps one of those j 
transient flashes I have been describ-J 
ing; but I hope, my dear Eliza, you 
will do me the justice to believe me, 
when I assure you that the love I have 
for you i-i founded on the sacred prin- 
ciples of virtue and honour, and by 
consequence so long as you continue 
possessed of those amiable qualities 
which first inspired my passion for 
you, so long must I continue to love 
you. Believe me, my dear, it is love 
like this alone which can render the 
marriage state happy. People may 
talk of flames and raptures as long a* 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



341 



they please, and a warm fancy, with a 
flow of youtliful spirits, in;iy rajike 
them feel something like what they 
describe; but sure I am the nobler 
faculties of the mind with kindred 
feelings of the heart can only be the 
foundation of friendship, and it has 
always been my opinion that the mar- 
I ried life was only friendship in a more 
exalted degree. If you will be so good 
as to grant my wishes, and it should 
please Providence to spare us to the 
latest period of life, I can look forward 
and see that even then, though bent 
down with wrinkled age, — even then, 
when all other worldly circumstances 
will be indifferent to me, I will regard 
my Eliza with the tenderest affection, 
and for this plain reason, because she 
is still possessed of these noble quali- 
ties, improved to a much higher de- 
gree, which first inspired my affection 
for her. 

*' Oh happy state when souls each other draw 
Where love is liberty and nature law !" 

I know were I to speak in such a 
style to many a girl who thinks herself 
possessed of no small share of sense, 
she would think it ridiculous; but the 
language of the heart is, my dear 
Eliza, the only courtship I shall ever 
use to you. 

When I look over what I have writ- 
ten, I am sensible it is vastly different 
from the ordinary style of courtship; 
but I shall make no apology — I know 
your good-nature will excuse what 
your good sense may see amiss. 

R, B, 



No, VI, 



TO THE SAME, 

LOCHLEA, 1783. 

I HAVE often thought it a peculiarly 
unlucky circumstance in love, that 
though in every other situation in life 
telling the truth is not only the safest, 
but actually by far the easiest, way of 
proceeding, a lover is never under 
greater difficulty in acting, or more 
puzzled for expression, than when his 
passion is sinceie, and his intentions 



are honourable. I do not think that it 
is so difficult for a person of ordinary 
capacity to talk of love and fondness 
which are not felt, and to make vows 
of constancy and fidelity which are 
never intended to be performed, if he be 
villain enough to practise such detes- 
table conduct; but to a man whose 
heart glows with the principles of in- 
tegrity and truth, and who sincerely 
loves a woman of amiable person, un- 
common refinement of sentiment and 
purity of manners — to such a one, in 
such circumstances, I can assure you, 
my dear, from my own feelings at this 
present moment, courtship is a task 
indeed. There is such a number of 
foreboding fears and distrustful anxie- 
ties crowd into my mind when I am in 
your company, or when I sit down to 
write to you, that what to speak or 
what to write I am altogether at a 
loss. 

There is one rule which I have hith- 
erto practised, and which I shall in- 
variably keep with you, and that is, 
honestly to tell you the plain truth. 
There is something so mean and unman- 
ly in the arts of dissimulation and false- 
hood that I am surprised they can be 
acted by any one in so noble, so gener- 
ous a passion as virtuous love. No, 
my dear Eliza, I shall never endeavour 
to gain your favour by such detestable 
practices. If you will be so good and 
so generous as to admit me for your 
partner, your companion, your bosom 
friend through life, there is nothing 
on this side of eternity shall give me 
greater transport; but I shall never 
think of purchasing your hand by any 
arts unworthy of a man, and, I will 
add, of a Christian. There is one thing, 
my dear, which I earnestly request of 
you, and it is this — that you would 
soon either put an end to my hopes by 
a peremptory refusal, or cure me of 
my fears by a generous consent. 

It would oblige me much if you 
would send me a line or two when con- 
venient. I shall only add further that, 
if a well behaviour regulated (though 
perhaps bat very imperfectly) by the 
rules of honour and virtue, if a heart 
devoted to love and esteem you, ^cl 



BURNS' WORKS. 



an earnest endeavour to promote your 
happiness; ii" these are qualities you 
would wish in a friend, in a husband, 
I hope you shall ever find them in your 
real friend and sincere lover, R. R 



No. VII. 



TO THE SAME. 

LOCHLEA, 1783. 

I OUGHT, in good manners, to have 
acknowledged the receipt of your let- 
ter before this time, but ray heart 
was so shocked at the contents of it 
that I can scarcely yet collect my 
thoughts so as to write you on the sub- 
ject. I will not attempt to describe 
what I felt on receiving your letter. 
I read it over and over, again and 
again, and though it was in the politest 
language of refusal, still it was per- 
emptory; " you were sorry you could 
not make me a return, but you wish 
me," what, without you I never can 
obtain, "you wish me all kind of 
happiness. " It would be weak and un- 
manly to say that without you I 
never can be happy; but sure I am 
that sharing life with you would have 
given it a relish, that, wanting you, I 
can never taste. 

Your uncommon personal advan- 
tages and your superior good sense do 
not so much strike me; these possibly 
may be met with in a few instances in 
others; but that amiable goodness, 
that tender feminine softness, that en- 
dearing sweetness of disposition, with 
all the charming offspring of a warm, 
feeling heart — these I never again ex- 
pect to meet with in such a degree in 
this world. All these charming quali- 
ties, heightened by an education much 
beyond anything I have ever met in 
any woman I ever dared to approach, 
have made an impression on my heart 
that I do not think the world can ever 
efface. My imagination has fondly 
flattered itself with a wish, I dare not 
say it ever reached a hope, that possi- 
bly I might one day call you mine. I 
had formed the most delightful im- 
ages, and my fancy fondly brooded 



over them; but now I am wretched foi 
the loss of what I really had no right 
to expect. I must now think no morq 
of you as a mistress; still I presume to 
ask to be admitted as a friend. As 
such I wish to be allowed to wait on 
you, and, as I expect to remove in a 
few days a little further off, and you, 
I suppose, will soon leave this place, I 
wish to see or hear from you soon; 
and if an expression should perhaps 
escape me rather too warm for friend- 
ship, I hope you will pardon it in, my 
dear Miss (pardon me the dear ex- 
pression for once) . R. B. 



No. VIIL 

TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, 

MONTROSE. 

LOCHLEA, Feb. 17, 1784. 

Dear Cousin, — I would have re- 
turned you my thanks for your kind 
favour of the 13th of December sooner, 
had it not been that I waited to give 
you an account of that melancholy 
event, which, for some time past, we 
have from day to day expected. 

On the 13th current I lost the best 
of fathers. Though, to be sure, we 
have had long warning of the impend- 
ing stroke; still the feelings of nature 
claim tliejr part, and 1 cannot recollect 
the tender endearments and parental 
lessons of the best of friends and ablest 
of instructors without feeling what 
perhaps the calmer dictates of reason 
would partly condemn 

I hope my father's friends in your 
country will not let their connexion in 
this place die with him. For my part 
I shall ever with pleasure, with pride, 
acknowledge my connexion with those 
who were allied by the ties of blood 
and friendship to a man whose mem- 
ory I shall ever honour and revere. 

I expect, therefore, my dear sir, you 
will not neglect any opportunity of let- 
ting me hear from you, which will 
very much oblige, my dear cousin, 
yours sincerely, 

K. 3. . 



GENERAL CORRESPONDEISrCE. 



849 



No. IX. 

TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, 

MONTROSE. 

MOSSGIEL, Aug. 1784. 

We have been surprised with one of 
the most extraordinary phenomena in 
the moral world which I dare say has 
happened in the course of this half- 
century. We have had a party of [the] 
Presbytery of [the] Relief, as they call 
themselves, for some time in this 
country. A pretty thriving society of 
them has been in fehe burgh of Irvine 
for some years past, till about two 
years ago, a Mrs. Buchan from Glas- 
gow came among them, and began to 
spread some fanatical notions of re- 
ligion among them, and in a short 
time made many converts; and among 
others, their preacher, Mr. White, 
who, upon that account, has been sus- 
pended and formally deposed by his 
brethren. He continued, however, to 
- preach in private to his party, and was 
supported, both he and their spiritual 
mother, as they affect to call old 
Buchan, by the contributions of the 
rest, several of whom were in good 
circumstances; till, in spring last, the 
populace rose and mobbed Mrs. 
Buchan, and put her out of the town; 
on which all her followers voluntarily 
quitted the place likewise, and with 
such precipitation, that many of them 
never shut their doors behind them; 
one left a washing on the green, 
another a cow bellowing at the crib 
without food, or anybody to mind her, 
and after several stages, they are fixed 
at present in the neighbourhood of 
Dumfries. Their tenets are a strange 
jumble of enthusiastic jargon; among 
others, she pretends to give them the 
Holy Ghost by breathing on them, 
which she does with postures and prac- 
tices that are scandalously indecent; 
they have likewise disposed of all their 
effects, and hold a community of goods, 
and live nearly an idle life, carrying 
on a great farce of pretended devotion 
in barns and woods, where they lodge 
and lie all together, and hold likewise 
a community of women, as it is another 



of their tenets that they can commit no 
moral sin, I am personally acquainted 
witli most of them, and 1 can assure 
you the above mentioned are facts. 

This, my dear sir, is one of the many 
instances of the folly of leaving th9 
guidance of sound reason and commo.i 
sense in matters of religion. 

Whenever we neglect or despise 
these sacred monitors, the whimsical 
notions of aperturbated brain are taken 
for the immediate influences of the 
Deity, and the wildest fanaticism, and 
the most inconstant absurdities, will 
meet with abettors and converts. Nav, 
I have often thought that the more out 
of the way and ridiculous the fancies 
are, if once they are sanctified under 
the sacred name of religion, the un- 
happy mistaken votaries are the more 
firmly glued to them. 

R. B. 



No. X. 



TO MISS . 

My dear Countrywoman, — I am 
so impatient to show you that I am 
once more at peace with you, that I 
send you the book I mentioned directly, 
rather than wait the uncertain time of 
my seeing you. I am afraid I have 
mislaid or lost Collms' poems, which I 
promised to Miss Irvine, If I can find 
them, I will forward them by you: if 
not, you must apologise for me. 

I know you will laugh at it when I 
tell you that your piano and you to- 
gether have played the deuce somehow 
about my heart. My breast has been 
widowed these many months, and I 
thought myself proof against the fas- 
cinating witchcraft; but I am afraid 
you will " feelingly convince me what 
I aB4," I say, I am afraid, because I 
am not sure what is the matter with me. 
I have one miserable bad symptom; 
when you whisper, or look kindly to 
another, it gives me a draught of dam- 
nation. I have a kind of wayward 
wish to be with you ten minutes by 
yourself, though what I would say. 
Heaven above knows, for I am sure I 
know not. I have no formed design ii| 



650 



BmiNS' WORKS. 



all this; but just, in the nakedness of 
my heart, write you down a mere mat- 
ter-of-fact story. You may perhaps 
give yourself airs of distance on this, 
and that will completely cure me; but 
I wish you would not; just let us meet, 
if you please, in the old beaten way of 
friendship. 

I will not subscribe myself your 
humble servant, for that is a phrase, I 
think, at least fifty miles off from the 
heart; but I will conclude with sin- 
cerely wishing that the great Protector 
of innocence may shield you from the 
barbed dart of calumny, and hand you 
by the covert snare of deceit. 

R. B. 



No. XI. 

TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND, 
EDINBURGH. 

MossGiEL, Feb. 17, 1786. 

My dear Sir, — I have not time at 
present to upbraid you for your silence 
and neglect; I shall only say I received 
yours with great pleasure. I have en- 
closed you a piece of rhyming ware for 
your perusal. I have been very busy 
with the Muses since I saw you, and 
have composed among several others, 
"The Ordination," a poem on Mr. 
M'Kinlay's being called to Kilmarnock; 
•Scotch Drink," a poem; "The Cot- 
ter's Saturday Night;" " An Address 
to the Deil," &c. 1 have likewise com- 
pleted my poem on "The Twa Dogs," 
but have not shown it to the world. 
My chief patron now is Mr. Aiken in 
Ayr, who is pleased to express great 
approbation of my works. Be so good 
as to send me Fergusson, by Connel, 
and I will remit you the money. I 
have no news to acquaint you with 
about Mauchline, they are just going 
on in the old way. I have some very 
important news with respect to myself, 
not the most agreeable — news that I am 
sure you cannot guess, but I shall give 
you the particulars another time. I am 
fxtremely happy with Smith; he is the 



only friend I have now in Mauchline. 
I can scarcely forgive your long neglect 
of me, and 1 beg you will let me hear 
from you regularly by Connel. If you 
would act your part as a friend, I am 
sure neither good nor bad fortune 
should strange or alter me. Excuse 
haste, as I got yours but yesterday.— 
I am, my dear sir, yours, 

Robert Burness. 



No. XII. 

TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

MossGiEL, March 3, 1785. 

Sir, — I have done myself the pleas- 
ure of complying with your request in 
sending you my Cottager. If you have 
a leisure minute, I should be glad you 
would copy it and return me either the 
rriginal or the transcript, as I have not 
a copy of it by me, and I have a friend 
who wishes to see it. 

Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse 

E'er bring you in by Mauchline Corse,* 

Lord, man, there's lasses there wad force 

A hermit's fancy ; 
And down the gate in faith they're worse, 

And mair unchancy. 

But, as I'm sayin", please step to Dow's, 
And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews, 
Till some bit callan bring me news 

That you are there ; 
And if we dinna baud a bouze 

I'se ne'er drink mair. 

It's no I like to sit and swallow. 

Then like a swine to puke and wallow ; 

But gie me just a true good fallow, 

Wi' right engine. 
And spunkie ance to make us mellow, 

And then we'll shine. 

Now, if ye're ane o' warld's folk, 
Wha rate the wearer by the cloak, 
And sklent on poverty their joke, 

Wi' bitter sneer, 
Wi' you no friendship will I troke. 

Nor cheap nor dear. 

But if, as I'm informed weel, 
Ye hate, as ill's the verra deil. 
The flinty heart that canna feel. 

Come, sir, here's tae you ! 
Hae, there's my haun', I wissyou weel,' 
And gude be wi' you ! 
R. B. 



♦ The village market cross. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



W 



No. XIII. 

TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, 

KILMARNOCK, 

MossGiEL, March 20, 1786. 

Dear Sir,— I am heartily sorry I 
had not the pleasure of seeing you as 
you returned through Mauchline; but 
as I was engaged, I could not be in 
town before the evening. 

I here enclose you my "Scotch Drink," 
and " may the follow with a bless- 
ing for your edification. " I hope, some- 
time before we hear the gowk, to have 
the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmar- 
nock, when I intend we shall have a 
gill between us, in a mutchkin stoup; 
which will be a great comfort and con- 
solation to, dear sir, your humble ser- 
vant, 

Robert Burness. 



No. XIV. 
TO MR. AIKEN. 

"^ MossGiEL, April 3, 1786. 

Dear Sir, — I received your kind 
letter with double pleasure, on account 
of the second flattering instance of 
Mrs. C.'s notice and approbation. I as- 
sure you I 

" Turn out the brunt side o' my shin," 

as the famous Ramsay of jingling 
memory says, at such a patroness. 
Piesent her my most grateful ac- 
knowledgments in your very best 
manner of telling truth. I have in- 
scribed the following stanza on the 
blank leaf of Miss More's work.* 

My proposals for publishing I am 
just going to send to press. I expect 
to hear from you by the first oppor- 
tunity. — I am ever, dear sir, yours, 
Robert Burness. f 



* See " Lines to Mrs. C ," p. 103. 

t This was the last time the poet spelt his 
name according to the wont of his forefathers. 

The Mls9 Mor? ^nu^?4 Xg w?i§ Hannah Mor«, 



No. XV. 

TO MR. M'WHINNIE. WRITER, 

AYR. 

MossGiEL, April 17, 1786, 

It is injuring some hearts, those 
hearts that elegantly bear the impres- 
sion of the good Creator, to say to 
them you give them the trouble of 
obliging a friend; for this reason, I 
only tell you that I gratify my own 
feelings in requesting your friendly 
offices with respect to the enclosed, 
because I know it will gratify yours to 
assist me in it to the utmost of your 
power. 

I have sent you four copies, as I 
have no less than eight dozen, which 
is a great deal more than I shall ever 
need. 

Be sure to remember a poor poet 
militant in your prayers. He looks 
forward with fear and trembling to 
that, to him, important moment 
which stamps the die with — with — 
with, perhaps, the eternal disgrace of 
my dear sir, your humble, afflicted, 
tormented, 

Robert Burns. 



No. XVI. 

TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

MossGiEL, April 20, 1786, 
Sir, — By some neglect in Mr. Hamil- 
ton, I did not hear of your kind request 
for a subscription paper till this day. 
I will not attempt any acknowledg- 
ment for this, nor the manner iq 
which I see your name in Mr.Hamil- 
ton's subscription list. Allow ma 
only to say, sir, I feel the weight of 
the debt. 

I have here likewise enclosed a small 
piece, the very latest of my produc- 
tions.* I am a good deal pleased witlj 
some sentiments myself, as they are 
j ust the native querulous feelings of a 
heart which, as the elegantly melting 



♦ " Th? Mo\ittt?wa Pai§yr 



853 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Gray says, " Melancholy has marked 
for her own." 

Our race comes on apace; that much 
expected scene of revelry and mirth; 
but to me it brings no joy equal to 
that meeting with which you last flat- 
tered the expectation of, sir, your in- 
debted humble servant, R. B. 



No. XVII. 
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

MossGiEL, May 17, 1786. 

Dear Sm, — I have sent you the above 
hasty copy as I promised.* In about 
three or four weeks I shall probably set 
the press agoing. I am much hurried 
at present, otherwise your diligence, 
so very friendly in my subscription, 
should have a more lengthened 
acknowledgment from, dear sir, your 
obliged servant, R. B. 



No. XVIII. 
TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, OF AYR. 

June 1786. 

Honoured Sir, — ^My proposals came 
to hand last night, and knowing that 
you would wish to have it in your 
power to do me a service as early as 
anybody, I enclose you half-a-sheet of 
them. I must consult you, first op- 
portunity, on the propriety of sending 
my quondam friend, Mr Aiken a copy. 
If he is now reconciled to my char- 
acter as an honest man, I would do 
it with all my soul; but I would not 
be beholden to the noblest being ever 
God created, if he imagined me to be 
a rascal. Apropos, old Mr. Armour 
prevailed with him to mutilate that 
unlucky paper yesterday. Would you 
believe it ? — though I had not a hope, 
nor even a wish, to make her mine 
after her conduct; yet, when he told 
me the names were all out of the 
paper, my heart died within me, and 

♦ "Tiie EpisUe to Raakine/' 



he cut my veins with the news. Per- 
dition seize her falsehood ! * R. B, 



No. XIX. 
TO MR. DAVID BRICE.f 

MossGiEL, June 12, 1786. 

Dear Brice, — I received youf 
message by G. Paterson, and as I am 
not very throng at present, I just 
Avrite to let you know that there is 
such a worthless, rhyming reprobate 
as your humble servant still in the 
land of the living, though I can 
scarcely say in the place of hope. I 
have no news to tell you that will give 
me any pleasure to mention or you to 
hear. 

Poor, ill-advised, ungrateful Armour 
came home on Friday last.:): You 
have heard all the particulars of that 
aiTair, and a black affair it is. What 
she thinks of her conduct now, I don't 
kaow; one thing I do know — she has 
made me completely miserable. Never 
rnan loved, or rather adored, a woman 
more than I did her; and, to confess a 
truth between you and me, I do still love 
her to distraction after all, though I 
won't tell her so if I were to see her, 
which I don't want to do. My poor dear 
unfortunate Jean ! how happy have I 
been in thy arms ! It is not the losing 
her that makes me so unhappy, bat 
for her sake I feel most severely: I fore- 
see she is in the road to, I am afraid, 
eternal ruin. 

May Almighty God forgive her in- 
gratitude and perjury to me, as I from 
my ver soul forgive her; and may 
His grace be with her and bless her in 
all her future life ! 1 can have no nearer 
idea of the place of eternal punishment 
than what I have felt in my own 
breast on her account. I have tried 
often to forget her; I have run into 
all kinds of dissipation and riots. 



* Alluding- to the destruction of the maJt 
riage-lines between the poet and Jean. 

+ David Brice, then a shoemaker in Glav 
gow, one of the poet's early friends. 

X From Paisley, whither she had gone to 
reside, to be out Qi the way of the poe^ 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



853 



mason-meetings, drinking-matches, 
and other mischief, to dr?ve her out of 
my head, but all in. vain. And now 
for a grand cure; tlie ship is on her 
■way home that is to take me out to 
Jamaica; and then farewell, dear old 
Scotland ! and farewell, dear ungrate- 
ful Jean ! for never, never will I see 
you more. 

You will have heard that I am going 
to commence poet in print; and to- 
morrow my works go to the press. I 
expect it will be a volume of about 
two hundred pages — it is just the last 
foolish action I intend to do; and 
then turn a wise man as fast as possible. 
— Believe me to be, dear Brice, your 
friend and well-wisher, 

R. B. 



No. XX. 
TO MR. ROBERT AIKEN. 

Ayrshire, July 1786. 

Sm, — I was with Wilson, my 
printer, t'other day, and settled all our 
bygone matters between us. After I 
had paid him all demands, I made 
him the oif er of the second edition, on 
the hazard of being paid out of the 
first and readiest, which he declines. 
By his account, the paper of a 
thousand copies would cost about 
twenty-seven pounds, and the printing 
about fifteen or sixteen: he offers to 
agree to this for the printing, if I will 
advance for the paper, but this, you 
know, is out of my power; so farewell 
hopes of a second edition till I grow 
richer ! an epoch which, I think, will 
arrive at the payment of the British 
national debt. 

There is scarcely anything hurts me 
so much in being disappointed of my 
second edition as not having it in my 
power to show my gratitude to Mr. 
Ballantyne, by publishing my poem 
of " The Brigs of Ayr." I would de- 
test myself as a wretch, if I thought I 
were capable in a very long life of 
forgetting the honest, warm, and ten- 
der delicacy with which he enters into 
1117 inter?3t9, I am sometimes 



pleased with myself in my grateful 
sensations; but I believe on the whole, 
I have very little merit in it, as my 
gratitude is not a virtue, the conse- 
quence of reflection; but sheerly tiio 
instinctive emotion of my heart, t:)o 
inattentive to allow worldly maxima 
and views to settle into selfish habitii, 

I have been feeling all the various 
rotations and movements within, 
respecting the Excise. There arj 
many things plead strongly against i,; 
the uncertainty of getting soon intj 
business; the consequences of ny 
follies, which may perhaps make it 
impracticable for me to stay at home ; 
and besides I have for some tini:; 
been pining under secret wretchednear-, 
from causes which you pretty well 
know — the pang of disappointment, 
the sting of pride, with some wander- 
ing stabs of remorse, which never fail 
to settle on my vitals like vultures, 
when attention is not called away by 
the calls of society, or the vagaries of 
the Muse. Even in the hour of so- 
cial mirth, my gaiety is the madness 
of an intoxicated criminal under the 
hands of the executioner. All these 
reasons urge me to go abroad, and to 
all these reasons I have only one 
answer — the feelings of a father. 
This, in the present mood I am in, 
overbalances everything that can be 
laid in the scale against it. 

You may perhaps think it an extrav- 
agant fancy, but it is a sentiment that 
strikes home to my very soul: thougli 
skeptical in some points of our current 
belief,- yet, I think, I have every 
evidence for the reality of a life be- 
yond the stinted bourn of our present 
existence; if so, then how should I, 
in the presence of that tremendou.i 
Being, the Author of existence, — how 
should I meet the reproaches of those 
who stand to me in the dear relation of 
children, whom I deserted in the 
smiling innocency of helpless infancy ? 
Thou great unknown Power ! — 
Thou Almighty God ! who hast light- 
ed up reason in my breast, and blessed 
me with immortality ! — I have fre- 
quently wandered from that order 
and regularity necessary for tho per- 



854 



BTTR^S' WORSS. 



fection of Tliy works, yet Thou hast 
never left me, nor forsaken me ! 

Since I wrote tlie foregoing sheet, 
I have seen something of the storm of 
mischief thickening over my folly- 
devoted head, Should you, my 
friends, my benefactors, be successful 
in your applications for me,* perhaps 
it may not be in my power in that way 
to reap the fruit of your friendly 
efforts. What I have written in the 
preceding pages is the settled tenor of 
my present resolution: but should in- 
imical circumstances forbid me closing 
with your kind offer, or enjoying it 
only threaten to entail further misery. 
.... To tell the truth, I have little 
reason for complaint; as the world, 
in general, has been kind to me fully 
up to my deserts. I was, for some 
time past, fast getting into the pining 
distrustful snarl of the misantliiope. 
I saw myself alone, unfit for the 
struggle of life, shrinking at every 
rising cloud in the chance-directed at- 
mosphere of fortune, while, all de- 
fenceless, I looked about in vain for a 
cover. It never occurred to me, at 
least never with the force it deserved, 
that this world is a busy scene, and 
man, a creature destined for a pro- 
gressive struggle; and that, however 
I might possess a warm heart and in- 
offensive manners, (which last, by 
the by, was rather more than I could 
well boast,) still, more than these pas- 
sive qualities, there was something to 
be done. When all my schoolfellows 
and youthful compeers (those mis- 
guided few excepted who joined, to 
use a Gentoo phrase, the "hallachores" 
of the human race) were striking off 
with eager hope and earnest intent, in 
some one or other of the many paths 
of busy life, I was "standing idle in 
the marketplace," or only left the 
chase of the butterfly from flower to 
flower, to hunt fancy from whim to 
whim. 

You see, sir, that if to know one's 
errors were a probability of mending 
them, I stand a fair chance; but, 



♦ Alluding to the efforts which were being 
made to procure Ui<n ^^ appointment in the 

B«cis?, 



according to the reverend West- 
minster divines, though conviction 
must precede conversion, it is very fal 
from always implying it. ' K. B. 



No. XXI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP OF DUNLOP. 

Ayrshire, July 1786. 

Madam, — I am truly sorry I was not 
at home yesterday, when I was so 
much honourea with your order for my 
copies, and incomparably more by the 
handsome complmients you are pleased 
to pay my poetic abilities. I am fully 
persuaded that there is not any class of 
mankind so feelingly alive to the titil- 
lations of applause as the sons of Par- 
nassus: nor is it easy to conceive how 
the heart of the poor bard dances with 
rapture, when those whose character 
in life gives them a right to be polite 
judges honour him with their appro- 
bation. Had you been thoroughly ac- 
quainted with me, madam, you could 
not have touched my darliiig heart- 
chord more sweetly than by noticing 
my attempts to celebrate your illustri- 
ous ancestor, the saviour of his coun- 
try. 

" Great patriot hero ! ill-requited chief !" 

The first book I met with in my early 
years, which I perused with pleasure, 
was, "The Life of Hannibal;" the 
next was " The History of Sir William 
Wallace;" for several of my earlier 
years I had few other authors; and 
many a solitary hour have I stole out, 
after the laborious vocations of the 
day, to shed a tear over their glorious 
but unfortunate stories. In those boy- 
ish days I remember in particular be- 
ing struck with that part of Wallace's 
story where these lines occur — 

" Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late^ 
To make a silent and a safe retreat," 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the 
only day my line of life allowed, and 
walked half-a-dozen of miles to pay 
my respects tg the Le^lea wood, with 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCR 



355 



as mucli devout enthusiasm as ever pil- 
grim aid toLoretto; and, as 1 explored 
every den and dell where 1 could sup- 
pose my heroic countryman to have 
lodged, I recollect (for even then I was 
a rhymer) that my heart glowed with 
a wish to be able to make a song on 
him in some measure equal to his 
merits. H. B. 



No. XXII. 

TO MONS. JAMES SMITH, 

MAUCHLINE. 

MossGiEL, Monday Morning, 1786. 

My dear Sir, — I went to Dr. Doug- 
las yesterday, fully resolved to take 
the opportunity of Captain Smith; but 
I found the doctor with a Mr, and Mrs. 
White, both Jamaicans, and they have 
deranged my plans altogether. They 
assure him, that to send me from Sa- 
vannah la Mar to Port Antonio will cost 
my master, Charles Douglas, upwards 
of fifty, pounds; besides running the 
risk of throwing myself into a pleuritic 
fever in consequence of hard travelling 
in the sun. On these accounts, he re- 
fuses sending me with Smith; but a 
vessel sails from Greenock on the 1st 
of September, right for the place of my 
destination. The captain of her is an 
intimate friend of Mr. Gavin Hamil- 
ton's, and as good a fellow as heart 
#3uld wish: with him I am destined to 
go. Wliere I shall shelter, I know 
not, but I hope to weather the storm. 
Perish the drop of blood of mine that 
[ fears them ! I know their worst, and 
am prepared to meet it: — 

" I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg. 
As lang's I dow." 

On Thursday morning, if you can 
muster as much self-denial as to be out 
of bed about seven o'clock, I shall see 
you as I ride through to Cumnock. 
After all. Heaven bless the sex ! I feel 
there is still happiness for me among 
them : — 

** O woman, lovely woman ! Heaven design'd 
you 
To temper man !— we had been brutes with- 
out you I" 

R. B. 



No. XXIII. 

TO JOHN RICHMOND, 

EDINBURGH. 

MossGlEL, July 9, 1786. 

With the sincerest grief I read youf 
letter. You are truly a son of misfor- 
tune. I shall be extremely anxious to 
hear from you how your health goes 
on; if it is any way re-establishing, or if 
Leith promises well; in short, how you 
feel in the inner man. 

No news worth anything: only godly 
Bryan was in the inquisition yesterday, 
and half the countryside as witnesses 
against h im . He sti 1 1 stands out steady 
and denying: but proof was led yester- 
night of circumstances highly sus- 
picious; almost de facto ; one of the 
servafit-girls made faith that she upon 
a time rashly entered into the house, 
to speak, in your cant, ' * in the hour ot 
cause. " 

I have waited on Armour since her 
return home; not from the least view 
of reconciliation, but merely to ask 
for her liealth, and to you I will con- 
fess it, from a foolish hankering fond- 
ness, very ill placed indeed. The 
mother forbade me the house, nor did 
Jean show that penitence that might 
have been expected. However, the 
priest, I have been informed, will give 
me a certificate as a single man, if I 
comply with the rules of the Church, 
which for that very reason I intend to 
do. 

I am going to put on sackcloth and 
ashes this day. I am indulged so far 
as to appear in my own seat. Peccavi, 
pater, miserere mei. My book will be 
ready in a fortnight. If you have any 
subscribers, return them by Connell. 
The Lord stand with the righteous. 
Amen, amen. R. B. 



No. XXIV. 

TO MR. DAVID BRICE, SHOE* 

MAKER, GLASGOW. 

MossGiEL, July 26, 1786, 
I HAVE been so throng printing my 
poems that I could scarcely find m 



866 



BTTRNS' WOnKS. 



iQUch time as to write to you. Poor 
Armour is come back again to Maucli- 
line, and I went to call for her, and 
her mother forbabe me the house, nor 
did she herself express much sorrow 
for what she has done. I have already 
appeared publicaly in church, and was 
indulged in the liberty of standing in 
my own seat. I do this to get a cer- 
tificate as a bachelor, which Mr. Auld 
has promised me. I am now fixed to go 
for the West Indies in October. Jean 
and her friends insisted much that 
^he should stand along with me in the 
kirk, but the minister would not allow 
it, which bred a great trouble, I assure 
you, and I am blamed as the cause of 
it, though I am sure i am innocent; 
but I am very much pleased, for all 
that, not to have had her company. I 
have no news to tell you that I remem- 
ber, I am really happy to hear of 
your welfare, and that you are so well 
in Glasgow. I must certainly see you 
before 1 leave the country. I shall ex- 

Sect to hear from you soon, and am, 
ear Brice, yours, R. B. 



No. XXV. 
TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. 

Old Rome Forest, July 30, 1786. 

My deak Richmond, — My hour is 
How come — you and I will never meet 
in Britain more. 1 have orders, with- 
in three weeks at furthest, to repair 
aboard the Nancy% Captain Smith, 
from Clyde to Jamaica, and to call at 
Antigua. This, except to our friend 
Smith, whom God long preserve, is a 
secret about Maucliline. Would you 
believe it ? Armour has got a warrant 
to throw me into jail till I find secur- 
ity for an enormous sum.* This tliey 
keep an entire secret, but I got it by a 
channel they little dream of; and I am 
wandering from one friend's house to 
another, and, like a true son of the 
gospel, " have no where to lay my 
head." I know you will pour an cx- 

* The poet had been misinformed. Armour 
nad no wish to imprison him ; he only sought 
to drive him from the country. 



ecration on her head, but spare th* 
poor, ill-advised girl, for my sake; 
though may all the furies that rend 
the injured, enraged lovers bosom 
await her mother until her latest hour! 
I write in a moment of rage, reflecting 
on my miserable situation — exiled, 
abandoned, forlorn. 1 can write no 
more — let me hear from you by the re- 
turn of coach. I will write you ere I 
go. — I am, dear sir, yours, here and 
hereafter, R. B. 



No. XXVI. 
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

Kilmarnock, Aug^. 1786. 

My dear Sir, — Your truly facetious 
epistle of the 3d instant gave me much 
entertainment. I' was sorry I had not 
the pleasure of seeing you as I passed 
your way; but we shall bring up all 
our lee way on Wednesday, the 16th 
current, when I hope to have it in my 
power to call on you and take a kind, 
very probably a last adieu, before I go 
for Jamaica; and I expect orders to re- 
pair to Greenock every day. I have at 
last made my public appearance, and 
am solemnly inaugurated into the 
numerous class. Could I have got a 
carrier, you should have liad a score 
of vouchers for my authorship; but 
now you have them, let them spealj 
for themselves. 

R. B. 

[The poet here inserts his " Fare- 
well " which will be found at p. 92. 



No. XXVIL 

TO MR. ROBERT MUIR,' 

KILMARNOCK. 

MossGiEL, Friday Noon, Sept. 1786. 
My Friend, my Brother.— Warm 
recollection of an absent friend presses 
so hard upon my heart that I send him 
the prefixed bagatelle, ("The Calf,") 
pleased with the thought that it will 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



greet the man of my bosom, and be a 
kind of distant language of friend- 
ship. 

You will have heard that poor Ar- 
mour has repaid me double. A very 
fine boy and a girl have awakened a 
thought and feelings that thrill, some 
with tender pressure and some with 
foreboding anguish, through my soul. 

The poem was nearly an extempora- 
neous production, on a wager with 
Mr. Hamilton that I would not produce 
a poem on the subject in a given time. 

If you think it worth while, read it to 
Charles and Mr. W. Parker, and if they 
choose a copy of it, it is at their ser- 
vice, as they are men whose friendship 
I shall be proud to claim both in this 
world and that which is to come. 

I believe all hopes of staying at 
home will be abortive, but more of 
this when, in the latter part of next 
week, you shall be troubled with a 
visit from, my dear sir, your most de- 
voted, R. B. 



No. XXVIII. 
TO MR. BURNESS, MONTROSE. 

MossGiEL, Friday Noon, Sept. 26, 1786. 

My dear Sir, — I at this moment 
receive yours — receive it with the hon- 
est, hospitable warmth of a friend's 
welcome. Whatever comes from you 
wakens always up the better blood 
about my heart, which your kind little 
recollections of my parental friends 
carries as far as it will go. 'Tis there 
that man is blest ! 'Tis there, my 
friend, man feels a consciousness of 
something within hiin above the trod- 
den clod ! The grateful reverence to 
the hoary (earthly) author of his being 
— ^the burning glow when he clasps the 
woman of his soul to his bosom — the 
tender yearnings of heart for the little 
angels to whom he has given existence 
■ — these nature has poured in milky 
streams about the human heart; and 
the man who never rouses them to ac- 
tion, by the inspiring influences of 



their proper objects, loses by far the 
most pleasurable part of his existence. 

My departure is uncertain, but I do 
not think it will be till after harvest. 
I will be on very short alio wan ee of 
time indeed, if I do not comply with 
your friendly invitation. When it 
will be, I don't know, but if I can 
make my wish good, I will endeavour 
to drop you a line some time before. 

My best compliments to Mrs. ; I 

should [be] equally mortified should I 
drop in when she is abroad; but o* 
that I suppose there is little chance. 

What I have written Heaven knows; 
I have not time to review it: so accept 
of it in the beaten way of friendship. 
With the ordinary phrase — perhaps 
rather more than the ordinary sincerity 
— I am, dear sir, ever yours, 

R. B. 



No. XXIX. 
TO DR. ARCHIBALD LAWRIE. 

MOSSGIEL, Nov. 13, 1786. 

Dear Sir, — I have, along with this, 
sent the two volumes of Ossian, with 
the remaining volume of the songs. 
Ossian I am not in such a hurry about, 
but I wish the songs, with the volume 
of the Scotch Poets, returned, as soon 
as they can be conveniently despatched. 
If they are left at Mr. Wilson's the 
bookseller, Kilmarnock, they will easily 
reach me. My most respectable com- 
pliments to Mr. and Mrs. Lawrie, and 
a poet's warm wishes for their happi. 
ness; — to the young ladies, particularly 
the fair musician, whom I think much 
better qualified than ever David was, 
or could be, to charm an evil spirit 
out of Saul. Indeed, it needs not the 
feelings of a poet to be interested in 
one of the sweetest scenes of domestic 
peace and kindred love that ever I saw, 
as I think the peaceful unity of St. 
Margaret's Hill can only be excelled 
by the harmonious concord of the 
Apocalypse. — I am, dear sir, yours sin* 
cerely, 

Robert Burnh. 



m 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. XXX. 
TO MISS ALEXANDER. 

MossGiEL, Nov. i8. 17S6. 

Madam, — Poets are such outre be- 
ings, so much the children of way- 
ward fancy and capricious whim, that 
I believe the world generally allows 
them a larger latitude in the laws of 
propriety than the sober sons of judg- 
ment and prudence. I mention this 
as an apology for the liberties that a 
nameless stranger has taken with you 
in the enclosed poem, which he begs 
leave to present you with. Whether 
it has poetical merit any way worthy 
of the theme, I am not the proper 
judge; but it is the best my abilities 
can produce; and, what to a good 
heart will, perhaps, be a superior 
grace, it is as sincere as fervent. 

The scenery was nearly taken from 
real life, though I daresay, madam, 
you do not recollect it, as I believe you 
scarcely noticed the poetic reveur as he 
■wandered by you. I had roved out, as 
chance directed, in the favourite haunts 
of my muse, on the banks of the Ayr, 
to view nature in all the gaiety of the 
vernal year. The evening sun was 
flaming over the distant western hills ; 
not a breath stirred the crimson open- 
ing blossom or the verdant spreading 
leaf. It was a golden moment for 
a poetic heart. I listened to the 
feathered warblers, pouring their har- 
mony on every hand, with a congenial 
kindred regard, and frequently turned 
out of my path, lest I should disturb 
their little songs, or frighten them to 
another station. Surely, said I to my- 
self, he must be a wretch indeed who, 
regardless of your harmonious en- 
deavour to please him,can eye your elu- 
sive flights to discover your secret re- 
cesses, and to rob you of all the prop- 
erty nature gives you — your dearest 
comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even 
the hoary hawthorn twig that sbtot 
across the way, what heart at such a 
time but must have been interested in 
its welfare, and wished it preserved 
from the rudely-browsing cattle, or the 
^thering eastern blast? Such was 



the scene, and such the hour, when iq 
a corner of my prospect I spied one of 
the fairest pieces of nature's workman- 
ship that ever crowned a poetic land- 
scape or met a poet's eye, those vision- 
ary bards excepted who hold converse 
with aerial beings ! Had Calumny and 
Villainy taken my walk, they had at 
that moment sworn eternal peace with 
such an object. 

What an hour of inspiration for a 
poet ! It would have raised plain dull 
historic prose into metaphor and meas- 
ure. 

The enclosed song ["The Bonnie 
Lass of Ballochmyle"] was the work of 
my return home; and perhaps it but 
poorly answers what might have been 
expected from such a scene. I have 
the honour to be, madam, your most 
obedient and very humble servant, 

R. B. 



No. XXXL 
TO MRS. STEWART OF STAIR. 

Nov. 1786. 
Madam, — The hurry of my prepara- 
tions for going abroad has hindered me 
from performing my promise so soon 
as I intended. I have here sent you a 
parcel of songs, &c. , which never made 
their appearance, except to a friend or 
two at most. Perhaps some of them 
may be no great entertainment to you, 
but of that I am far from being an 
adequate judge. The song to the tune 
of "Ettrick Banks," ["The Bonnie 
Xass of Ballochmyle"] you will easily 
see the impropriety of exposing much, 
even in manuscript. I think, myself, 
it has some merit: both as a tolerable 
description of one of nature's sweetest 
scenes, a July evening; and one of the 
finest pieces of nature's workmanship, 
and the finest indeed we know any- 
thing of, an amiabliB, beautiful young 
woman; but I have no common friend 



GENERAL COREESPONDENCE. 



359 



to procure me that permission, without 
which I would not dare to spread the 
copj. 

I am quite aware, madam, what task 
the world would assign me in this let- 
ter. The obscure bard, when any of 
the great condescend to take notice of 
liim, should heap the altar with the in- 
cense of flattery. Their high ancestry, 
their own great and godlike qualities 
and actions, should be recounted with 
the most exaggerated description. 
This, madam, is a task for which I am 
altogether unfit. Besides a certain 
disqualifying pride of heart, I know 
nothing of your connexions in life, and 
have no access to where your real 
character is to be found — the company 
of your compeers; and more, I am 
afraid that even the most refined adula- 
tion is by no means the road to your 
good opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall 
ever with grateful pleasure remember 
— the reception I got when I had the 
honour of waiting on you at Stair. I 
am little acquainted with politeness, 
but I know a good deal of benevolence 
of temper and goodness of heart. 
Surely did those in exalted stations 
know how happy they could make some 
classes of their inferiors by condescen- 
sion and affability, they would never 
ptand so high, measuring out with 
every look the height of their eleva- 
tion, but condescend as sweetly as did 
Mrs. Stewart of Stair. 

R. B. 



No. XXXII. 
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

MOSSGIEL, Nov. 18, 17S6. 

My dear Sir, — Enclosed you have 
"Tam Samson," as I intend to print 
him. I am thinking for my Edinburgh 
expedition on Monday or Tuesday, 
laome se'ennight, for pos. I will see 
you on Tuesday first. I am ever, your 
jaucli iadeUed, 

Ii.B. 



No. XXXIII. 
IN THE NAME OF THE NINE. 

— Amen. 

We, Robert Burns, by virtue of a 
warrant from Nature, bearing date 
January 25, 1759,* Poet-Laureate and 
Bard-in-Chief in and over the districts 
and countries of Kyle, Cunningham, 
and Carrick, of old extent, to our 
trusty and well-beloved William Chal- 
mers and John M'Adam, students and 
practitioners in the ancient and myste- 
rious science of confounding right and 
wrong. 

Right Trusty, — Be it known unto 
you, that whereas in the course of our 
care and watching over the order and 
police of all and sundry the manufac- 
turers, retainers, and venders of poesy; 
bards, poets, poetasters, rhymers, jing- 
lers, songsters, ballad-singers, &c, &c., 
male and female, we have discovered 
a certain nefarious, abominable, and 
wicked song or ballad, a copy whereof 
we have here enclosed: Our will there- 
fore is, that ye pitch upon and appoint 
the most execrable individual of that 
execrable species, known by the ap- 
pellation, phrase, and nickname of The 
Deil's Tell Nowte:f and after having 
caused him to kindle a fire at the 
Cross of Ayr, ye shall, at noontide of 
the day, put into the said wretch's 
merciless hands the said copy of the 
said nefarious and wicked song, to be 
consumed by fire in presence of all be- 
holders, in abhorrence of andterrorem 
to, all such compositions and compos- 
ers. And this in nowise leave ye un- 
done, but have it executed in every 
point as this our mandate bears, before 
the 24th current, when in person We 
hope to applaud your faithfulness and 
zeal. 

Given at Mauchline, November 20, 
A. D, 1786. God save the Bard ! 



* The poet's birthday, 

+ Dr. Currie thinks this phrase alludes to 
old bachelors ; but the poet's brother, Gilbert 
Burns, considers it a contemptuous appella^ 
tion often given to the officers of the law, 
and that it is in this sense it is used here. 
" Holy Willie's Prayer" is the poem alluded 
to. 



860 



BTJRNS' WORKS. 



No. XXXIV. 

TO DR. MACKENZIE,* 

MAUCHLINE, 

ENCLOSING HIM VERSES ON DINING 
WITH LORD DAER.f 

Wednesday Morning, Nov. 1786. 

Dear Sir, — I never spent an after- 
noon among great folks with half that 
pleasure as when, in company with 
you, I had the honour of paying my 
devoirs to that plain, honest, worthy 
man, the professor, [Dugald Stewart]. 
I would be delighted to see him per- 
form acts of kindness and friendship, 
though I were not the object; he does 
it with such a grace. I think his 
character, divided into ten parts, 
stands thus— four parts Socrates — four 
parts Nathanael — and two parts Shake- 
speare's Brutus. 

The accompanying verses were re- 
ally extempore, but a little corrected 
since. They may entertain you a little 
with the help of that partiality with 
which you are so good as to favour the 
performances of, dear sir, your very 
humble servant, 

R. B. 



No. XXXV. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., 
MAUCHLiNE.t 

Edinburgh, Dec 7, 1786. 

Honoured Sir, — I have paid every 
attention to your commands, but can 



* Dr. Mackenzie was one of Burns' early 
friends and admirers, and the first to intro- 
duce him to Dugald Stewart. After practis- 
ing for many years as a surgeon in Irvine, he 
retired to Edinburgh, and died therein 1837 
at an advanced age. 

t See the lines, p. loo. 

t Gavin Hamilton, a fast friend of Burns', 
was his landlord in the farm of Mossgiel. 
Burns was a frequent and welcome guest at 
his table. Mr. Hamilton had incurred the 
censure of the session of the church of which 
he was a member, on account of alleged non- 
attendance at public worship, Sunday travel- 
ling, &c., and It was this which suggested to 
the poet the writing of that terrible satire, 
* Holy Willie's Prayer." (See page 4%.) 

Burns wrote a dedicatory poem to Gavia 



only say what perhaps you will iiav« 
heard before this reaches you, that 
Muirkirklands were bought by a Mr. 
John Gordon, W. S., but for whom I 
know not; Mauchlands, Haugh Miln, 
&c., by a Mr. Frederick Fothering- 
ham, supposed to be for Ballochmyle 
Laird and Adam-hill and Shawood 
were bought for Oswald's folks. This 
is so imperfect an account, and will be 
so late ere it reach you, that were it 
not to discharge my conscience I 
would not trouble you with it; but 
after all my diligence I could make it 
no sooner nor better. 

For my own affairs, I am in a fair 
way of becoming as eminent as 
Thomas a Kempis or John Bunyan; 
and you may expect henceforth to seo 
my birthday inserted among the won- 
derful events, in the Poor Kobin's and 
Aberdeen Almanacs, along with the 
Black Monday, and the battle of Both- 
well Bridge. My Lord Glencairn and 
the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, 
have taken me under their wing; and in 
all probability I shall soon be the 
tenth worthy, and the eighth wise, 
man of the world. Through my lord's 
influence it is inserted in the records 
of the Caledonian Hunt that they 
universally, one and all, subscribe for 
the second edition. My subscription 
bills come out to-morrow, and you 
shall have some of them next post. 
I have met, in Mr. Dalrymple of Or- 
angefield, what Solomon emphatically 
calls "a friend that sticketh closer 
than a brother." The warmth with 
which he interests himself in my 
affairs is of the same enthusiastic 
kind which you, Mr. Aiken, and the 
few patrons that took notice of my 
earlier poetic days, showed for the 
poor unlucky devil of a poet. 

I always remember Mrs. Hamilton 
and Miss Kennedy in my poetic pray- 
ers, but you both in prose and verse. 

May cauld ne'er catch you i>ui a hap* 
Nor hunger but in plenty's lap ! 

Amen ! R. R 



Hamilton (see page 90.) which did not appeat 
at the front of the volume, though included if 
its pages. 

* Without sufijcieot glothing, 



CTENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



set 



No. XXXVI. 

TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ., 

BANKER, AYR.* 

Edinburgh, Dec. 13, 1786. 

"My Honoured Friend, — I would 
not write you till I could have it in 
my power to give you some account 
of myself and my matters, wliich, by 
the by, is often no easy task. I ar- 
rived here on Tuesday was se'ennight, 
and have suffered ever since I came to 
town with a miserable headache and 
stomach complaint, but am now a good 
deal better. I have found a worthy, 
warm friend in Mr Dalr}Tnple of Or- 
angefield, who introduced me to Lord 
Glencairn, a man whose worth and 
brotherly kindness to me I shall re- 
miember when time shall be no more. 
By his interest it is passed in the Cal- 
edonian Hunt, and entered in their 
books, that they are to take each a 
copy of the second edition, for which 
they are to pay one guinea. I have 
been introduced to a good many of the 
noblesse; but my avowed patrons and 
patronesses are — the Duchess of Gor- 
don, the Countess of Glencairn, with 
my Lord, and Lady Betty, f the Dean 
of Faculty, Sir John Whitefoord. I 
have likewise warm friends among 
the literati: Professors Stewart, 
Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie — ' ' The 
Man of Feeling." An unknown hand 
left ten guineas for the Ayrshire bard 
with Mr. Sibbald, which I got. I 
since have discovered my generous 
unknown friend to be Patrick Miller, 
PEsq., brother to the Justice-Clerk ; 
I and drank a glass of claret with him 
by invitation at his own house yester- 
night. I am nearly agreed with 
Creech to print my book, and I sup- 
pose I will begin on Monday. I will 
send a subscription bill or two next 
post, when I intend writing my first 
kind patron, Mr. Aiken. I saw his 
son to-day, and he is very well. 



* John Ballantyne, a friend and patron of 
the poet's, to whom he addressed " The Brigs 
of Ayr." He was for some time provost of 
Ayr, and had shown much zeal in the im- 
provement of his native town. 

+ Lady Betty Cunningham, an unmarried 
sister of the earl's. 



Dugald Stewart and some of my 
learned friends put me in the period- 
ical paper called the Lounger * a copy 
of which I here enclose you. I was, 
sir, when I was first honoured with 
your notice, too obscure; now I trem- 
ble lest I should be ruined by being 
dragged too suddenly into the glare of 
polite and learned observation. 

I shall certainly, my ever-honoured 
patron, write you an account of my 
every step ; and better health and more 
spirits may enable me to make it some- 
thing better than this stupid matter-of- 
fact epistle. — I have the honour to be, 
good sir, your ever-grateful humble 
servant, R. B. 

If any of my friends write me, my 
direction is, care of Mr. Creech, book- 
seller. 



No. XXXVII. 
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 20, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — I have just 
time for the carrier, to tell you that I 
received your letter; of which I shall 
say no more but what a lass of my ac- 
quaintance said of her bastard wean; 
she said she " didna ken wha was the 
father exactly, but she suspected it 
was some o' thae bonny blackguard 
smugglers, for it was like them," So 
I only say your obliging epistle was 
like you. I enclose you a parcel of 
subscription bills. Your affair oi 
sixty copies is also like you ; but it would 
not be like me to comply. 

Your friend's notion of my life has 
put a crotchet in my head of sketching 
it in some future epistle to you. My 
compliments to Charles and Mr. 
Parker. R. B. 



No. xxxvin. 

TO MR. CLEGHORN. 

" Oh, whare did ye get that hauver meal bai>» 
nock," &c.t 

Dear Cleghorn, — You will see by 

* The Lounger^ by Henry Mackenzie, the 
author of '' The Man of Feeling." 

t See the first version of *' Bonnie Duj3(Jee»* 
at p. 206. 



669 



BUR'NS' WORKS. 



the above that I have added a stanza 
to " Bonnie Dundee." If you think 
it will do, you may set it agoing 

" Upon a ten-string'd instrument. 
And on the psaltery." 

R. B. 
Mr. Cleghorn, Farmer. 

God bless the trade. 



No. XXXIX. 

TO MR. WILLIAM CHALMERS, 
WRITER. AYR.* 

Edinburgh, Dec. 27, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — I confess I have 
sinned the sin for which there is 
hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude 
to friendsliip — in not writing you 
sooner; but bf all men living, I had 
intended to send you an entertaining 
letter; and by all tlie plodding, stupid 
powers, that in nodding, conceited 
majesty preside over the dull routine 
of business — a heavily-solemn oath 
this ! — I am, and have been, ever 
since I came to Edinburgh , as unfit to 
write a letter of humour as to write a 
commentary on the Revelation of St, 
John the Divine, who was banished to 
the Jsle of Patmos by the cruel and 
bloody Domitian, son to Vespasian and 
brother to Titus, both emperors of 
Rome, and who was himself an em- 
peror, and raised the second or third 
persecution, I forget which, against 
the Christians, and after throwing the 
said apostle John, brother to the apos- 
tle James, commonly called James the 
Greater, to distinguish him from 
another James, who was, on some ac- 
count or other, known by the name of 
James the Less — after throwing him 
into a caldron of boiling oil, from 
which he was miraculously preserved, 
he banished the poor son of Zebedee 
to a desert island in the Archipelago, 



* Mr. William Chalmers, a writer in Ayr, 
an early friend of the poet's. He was in love, 
and, as he was not fo successful in his suit as 
he wished to be, he asked Burns to endeavour 
to propitiate the object of his affections by 
addressing a poem to her. " Willie Chalmers" 
(see page 94) v.'as the result. It is not known 
whether he succeeded ia his suit. 



where he was gifted with the secondl 
sight, and saw as many wild beasts aa 
1 have seen since I came to Edinburgh; 
which — a circumstance not very un- 
common in story-telling — brings me 
back to where I set out. 

To make you some amends for what, 
before you reach this paragraph, you 
will have suffered, I enclose you two 
poems I have carded and spun since J 
past Glenbuck, 

One blank in the address to Edin. 

burgh — "Fair B " — is the heavenly 

Miss Burnet, daughter of Lord Mon- 
boddo, at whose house I have had the 
honour to be more than once. There 
has not been anything nearly like hei 
in all the combinations of beauty, 
grace, and goodness the great Creatoi 
has formed, since Milton's Eve on tha 
first day of her existence. 

My direction is — care of Andre^v 
Bruce, merchant. Bridge Street. 

R. B. 



No. XL. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., 

MAUCHLINE. 

Edinburgh, January 7, 1787. 

To tell the truth among friends, I 
feel a miserable blank in my heart 
from the want of her [alluding to 
Jean Armour], and I don't think I 
shall ever meet with so delicious an 
armful again. She has her faults; 
but so have you and I; and so has 
everybody. 

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft ; 

They've ta en me in and a' that ; 
But clear your decks, and here's the sex, 
I like the iades for a' that. 
For a that, and a' that. 
And twice as muckle's a' that. 

I have met with a very pretty girl, 
a Lothian farmer's daughter, whom I 
have almost persuaded to accompany 
me to the west country, should I ever 
return to settle there. — By the by, & 
Lothian farmer is about the same as 
an Ayrshire squire of the lower kind. 
— I had a most delicious ride from 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



863 



Leitli to her house yesternight, in a 
hackney coach, with her brother and 
two sisters, and brother's wife. We 
had dined all together at a common 
friend's house in Leith, and drunk, 
danced, and sang till late enough. 
The night was dark, the claret had 
been good, and I thirsty . . . 
[The remainder is unfortunately 
wanting.] 



No. XLI. 
TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. 

Edinburgh, Jan. 1787. 

My Lord, — As I have but slender 
pretensions to philosophy, I cannot 
rise to the exalted ideas of a citizen of 
the world, but have all those national 
prejudices which I believe glow 
peculiarly strong in the breast of a 
Scotchman. There is scarcely any- 
thing to which I am so feelingly alive 
as the honour and welfare of my coun- 
try^ and, as a poet, I have no higher 
enjoyment than singing her sons and 
daughters. Fate had cast my station 
in the veriest shades of life; but never 
did a heart pant more ardently than 
mine to be distinguished; though, till 
very lately, I looked in vain on every 
side for a ray of light. It is easy then 
to guess how much 1 was gratified with 
the countenance and approbation of 
one of my country's most illustrious 
sons, when Mr. Wauchope called on 
me yesterday on the part of your lord- 
ship. Your munificence, my lord, 
certainly deserves my very grateful ac- 
knowledgments; but your patronage is 
a bounty peculiarly suited to my feel- 
ings. I am not master enough of the 
etiquette of life to know whether there 
be not some impropriety in troubling 
your lordship with my thanks, but my 
heart whispered me to do it. From the 
emotions of my inmost soul I do it. 
Selfish ingratitude I hope I am in- 
capable of; and mercenary servility, I 
trust, I shall ever have so much honest 
pride as to detect. 

R. B. 



No. XLII. 
TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ. 

Edinburgh, Jan. 14, 1787. 

My honoured Friend — It gives me 
a secret comfort to observe in myself 
that I am not yet so far gone as Willie 
Gaw's Skate, " past redemption;"* for 
I have still this favourable symptom of 
grace, that when my conscience, as in 
the case of this letter, tells me I am 
leaving something undone that I ought 
to do, it teases me eternally till I do it. 

I am still " dark as was chaos" in re- 
spect to futurity. My generous friend, 
Mr. Patrick Miller has been talking with 
me about a lease of some farm or other 
in an estate called Dalswinton, which he 
has lately bought near Dumfries. Some 
life - renxed embittering recollections 
whisper me that I will be happier any- 
where than in my old neighbourhood, 
but Mr. Miller is no judge of land; and 
though I daresay he means to favour 
me, yet he may give me in his opinion, 
an advantageous bargain that may ruin 
me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries 
as I return, and have promised to meet 
Mr. Miller on his lands some time in 
May. 

I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, 
where the most Worshipful Grand- 
master Charteris, and all the Grand 
Lodge of Scotland, visited. The meet- 
ing was numerous and elegant; all the 
different lodges about town were 
present in all their pomp. The grand- 
master, who presided with great solem- 
nity and honour to himself, as a gentle- 
man and mason, among other general 
toasts, gave ' ' Caledonia, and Cale- 
donia's Bard, Brother Burns," — which 
rang through the whole assembly with 
multiplied honours and repeated accla- 
mations. As I had no idea such a 
thing would happen, I was downright 
thunderstruck, and trembling in every 
nerve, made the best return in my 
power. Just as I had finished, some 
of the grand officers said, so loud that 
I could hear, with a most comforting 

* A proverbial expression denoting uttel 
ruin, which is still in use. 



S04 



buhns' works. 



accent, ** Very well indeed !" which 
set me something to rights again. 

I have to-day corrected my lo2d 
page. My best good wishes to JNIr. 
Aiken. I am ever, dear sir, your much 
indebted humble servant, 

R. B. 



No. XLIII. 
TO THE SAME. 

Jan. 1787. 

While here I sit, sad and solitary, 
by the side of a fire in a little country 
inn, and drying my wet clothes, in 
pops a poor fellow of a sodger, and tells 
me he is going to Ayr. By Heaven ! 
say I to myself, with a tide of good 
spirits which the magic of that sound, 
auld toun o' Ayr, conjured up, I will 
send my last song to Mr. Ballantyne. 
Here it is — 

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 
How can ye bloom sae fair ! 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae fu' o' care !* &c. 



No. XLIV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. . 

Edinburgh, Jan. 15, 1787. 

^Iadam, — ^Yours of the 9th current, 
\rhich I am this moment honoured 
w^itli, is a deep reproach to me for un- 
grateful neglect. I will tell you the 
real truth, for I am miserably awk- 
ward at a fib — I wished to have written 
to Dr. Moore before I wrote to you; 
but though, every day since I received 
yours of December 30th, the idea, the 
wish to write to him has constantly 
pressed on my thoughts, yet I could 
not for my soul set about it, I know 
his fame and character, and I am one 
of ** the sons of little men." To write 
liim a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a 
merchant's order, would be disgracing 
the little character I have; and to 
write the author of " The View of 
Society and Manners" a letter of senti- 
ment — I declare every artery runs cold 

* See *' The Banks o' Doon," p. 203. 



at ihe thought. I shall tr7, however, 
to write to him to-morrow or next day. 
His kind interposition in my behalf ] 
have already experienced, as a gentle- 
man waited on me the other day, on 
the part of Lord Eglinton, with ten 
guineas, by way of subscription for 
two copies of my next edition. 

The word you object to in the men- 
tion I have made of my glorious coun- 
tryman and your immortal ancestor, is ^ 
indeed borrowed from Thomson; but 
it does not strike me as an improper 
epithet. I distrusted my own judg- 
ment on your finding fault with it, and 
applied for the opinion of some of the 
literati here who honour me with their 
critical strictures, and they all allow it 
to be proper. The song you ask I can- 
not recollect, and I have not a copy ol 
it. I have not composed anything on 
the great Wallace, except what you 
have seen in print; and the enclosed, 
which I will print in this edition.* 
Y.ou will see I have mentioned some 
others of the name. When I composed 
my "Vision" long ago, I had attempted 
a description of Kyle, of which the 
additional stanzas are a part, as io 
originally stood. My heart glows with 
a wish to be able to do justice to the 
merits of the "saviour of his country," 
which sooner or later I shall at least 
attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow- intoxi- 
cated with my prosperity as a poet; 
alas ! madam, I know myself and the 
world too well. I do not mean any 
airs of affected modesty; I am willing 
to believe that my abilities deserve 
some notice; but in a most enlightened,- 
informed age and nation, when poetry 
is and has been the study of men of 
the first natural genius, aided with all 
the powers of polite learning, polite 
books, and polite company — to be 
dragged forth to the full glare of 
learned and polite observation, with all 
my imperfections of awkward rusticity 
and crude, unpolished ideas on m^ 
head — I assure you, madam, I do not 
dissemble when I tell you I tremble for 
the consequences. The novelty of a poet 



* See " The Vision," p. 60. 



GENERAL CORKESPONDENCE. 



361 



in my obscure situation, without any of 
those advantages which are reckoned 
necessary for that character at least 
at this time of day, has raised a partial 
tide of public notice which has borne 
me to a height, where I am absolutely, 
feelingly certain my abilities are in- 
adequate to support me; and too surely 
do I see that time when the same tide 
will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as 
far below the mark of truth. I do not 
say this in the ridiculous affectation of 
self-abasement and modesty. I have 
studied myself, and know what ground 
I occapy; and, however a friend of the 
world may differ from me in that par- 
ticular, I stand for my own opinion, in 
silent resolve, with all the tenacious- 
ness of property. I mention this to 
you once for all to disburden my mind, 
and I do not wish to hear or say more 
about it. But, 

" When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes," 
you will bear me witness that, when 
iny bubble of fame was at the highest, 
I stood unintoxicated, with the in- 
ebriating cup in my hand, looking for- 
ward with rueful resolve to the hasten- 
ing time when the blow of Calumny 
should dash it to the ground, with all 
the eagerness of vengeful triumph. 

Your patronising me and interesting 
yourself in my fame and character as a 
poet, I rejoice in; it exalts me in my 
own idea: and whether you can or can 
not aid me in my subscription is a 
trifle. Has a paltry subscription-bill 
any charms for the heart of a bard, 
compared with the patronage of the 
descendant of the immortal Wallace ? 

R. B. 



No. XLV. 

TO DR. MOORE.* 

Edinburgh, Jan. 1787. 
giR^_Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind 
as to send me extracts of letters she 



has had from you, where you do the 
rustic bard the honour of noticing him 
and his works. Those who have felt 
the anxieties and solicitudes of author- 
ship can only know what pleasure it 
gives to be noticed in such a manner 
by judges of the first character. Your 
criticisms, sir, I receive with reverence: 
only I am sorry they mostly came to« 
late: a peccant passage or two, that I 
would certainly have altered, were 
gone to the press. 

The hope to be admired for ages is, 
in by far the greater part of those even 
who are authors of repute, an unsub- 
stantial dream. " For my part, my first 
ambition was, and still my strongest 
wish is, to please my compeers, the 
rustic inmates of the hamlet, while 
ever-changing language and manners 
shall allow me to be relished and un- 
derstood. I am very willing to admit 
that I have some poetical abilities: 
and as few, if any, writers, either 



* Dr. Moore, who thus early discovered the 
talent of the poet, was a son of the Rev. 
Charles Moore of Stirling and was educated 



at Glasgow for the medical profession. la 
1747, while only seventeen years of age, he 
was, through the patronage of the Duke of 
Arevle, attached to the hospitals connected 
with the British army in Flanders. On hi3 
return, he settled in Glasgow ; but dishking 
the drudgery of the profession, he gave up 
his practice, and accepted the post of medical 
guardian to the young Duke of Hamilton, 
whose delicate health rendered the constant 
attendance of a medical man necessary. On 
the death of the young Duke, Dr. Moore s 
services were transferred to the brother of 
the deceased, with whom he spent five years 
of Continental travel. When the Duke had 
attained his majority. Dr. Moore settled la 
London, and afterwards became well knowa 
as an author. 

He wrote " A View of Society and Man- 
ners, in France, Switzerland, and Germany, 
the result of his foreign travel ; Medical 
Sketches ;" and when he was an old man, a 
novel entitled, " Zeluco." In i7q2, when 
sixty-three years of age, he was in Pans, and 
witnessed the insurrection of the loth of Au- 
gust, the dethronement of the king, and much 
of the horrors of that year of blood, and gave 
the result of his experience on his return, m 
the shape of " A Journal during a Residence 
in France," &c. He was a man of undoubted 
abilitv,and his works were popular in their 
day. ' In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, he had ex- 
pressed high admiration of the poetry of 
Burns, and this letter being shown to the 
poet, led to a correspondence of? most friend- 
ly and confidential nature. He died in 1802, 
leaving five sons, one of who.n General bit 
John Moore, belongs to history. 



BTTRNS' WORKS. 



moral or poetical, are intimately ac- 
quainted with the classes of mankind 
among whom I have chietiy mingled, I 
may have seen men and manners in a 
different phasis from what is common, 
which may assist originality of thought. 
Still I know very well the novelty of 
my character has by far the greatest 
share in the learned and polite notice I 
have lately had: and in. a language 
where Pope and Churchill have raised 
the laugh, and Shenstcne and Gray 
drawn the tear; where Thomson and 
Beattiehave painted the landscape, and 
Lyttleton and Collins described the 
heart; I am not vain enough to hope for 
distinguished poetic fame. 

R. B. 



No. XLVI. 

TO THE REV. G. LaWRIE, 

NEWMILLS, 

NEAR KILMARNOCK. 

Edinburgh, Feb. 5, 1787. 

Reverend and dear Sir, — When 
I look at the date of your kind letter, 
my heart reproaches me severely with 
ingratitude in neglecting so long to an- 
swer it. I will not trouble you with 
any account by way of apology, of 
my hurried life and distracted atten- 
tion: do me the justice to believe that 
my delay by no means proceeded from 
want of respect. I feel, and ever 
shall feel, for you the mingled senti- 
ments of esteem for a friend and rever- 
ence for a father. 

I thank you, sir, with all my soul 
for your friendly hints, though I do 
not need them so much as my friends 
are apt to imagine. You are dazzled 
with newspaper accounts and distant 
reports; but in reality I have no great 
temptation to be intoxicated with the 
cup of prosperity. Novelty may at- 
tract the attention of mankind awhile; 
to it I owe my present eclat; but I see 
the time not far distant when the pop- 
ular tide, which has borne me to a 
height of which I am perhaps un- 
worthy, shall recede with silent ce- 
lerity, and leave me a barren waste of 



sand, to descend at my leisure io rnf 
former station. I do not say this in 
the affectation of modesty; I see th« 
consequence is unavoidable, and am 
prepared for it. I had been at a good 
deal of pains to form a just, impartial 
estimate of my intellectual powers be- 
fore I came here; I have not added, 
since I came to Edinburgh, anything 
to the account; and 1 trust I shall 
take every atom of it back to my 
shades, the coverts of my unnoticed, 
early years. 

In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very 
often, I have found what I would 
have expected in our friend, a clear 
head and an excellent heart. 

By far the most agreeable hours I 
spend in Edinburgh must be placed to 
the account of Miss Lawrie and her 
pianoforte. I cannot help repeating 
to you and Mrs. Lawrie a compliment 
that Mr. Mackenzie, the celebrated 
" Man of Feeling," paid to Miss Law- 
rie the other night at the concert. I 
had come in at the interlude, and sat 
down by him till I saw Miss Lawrie 
in a seat not very distant, and went 
up to pay my respects to her. On my 
return to Mr. Mackenzie, he asked me 
who she was; I told him 'twas the 
daughter of a reverend friend of mine 
in the west country. He returned 
there was something very striking, to 
his idea, in her appearance. On my 
desiring to know what it was, he was 
pleased to say ' ' She has a great deal 
of the elegance of a well-bred lady 
about her, with all the sweet simpli- 
city of a country girl." 

My compliments to all the happy in- 
mates of St. Margaret's. 

R. B. 



No. XLVIL 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, Feb. 15, 1787. 

Sir, — Pardon my seeming neglect in 
delaying so long to acknowledge the 
honour you have done me, in your 
kind notice of me, January 23. Not 
many months ago I knew no other em- 
ployment than following the plough* 



GENERAL CORRE^T^OlsmENCE. 



scr 



nor ccild boast anything higher than 
a distant acquaintance with a country 
clergyman. Mere greatness never 
embarrasses me; I liave nothing to isk 
from the great, and I do not fear their 
judgment: but genius, polished by 
learning, and at its proper point of 
elevation in the eye of the world, this 
of late I frequently meet with, and 
tremble at its approach, I scorn the 
affectation of seeming modesty to 
cover self-conceit. That I have some 
merit I do not deny; but I see, with 
frequent wringings of heart, that the 
novelty of my character, and the 
honest national prejudice of my 
countrymen, have borne me to a 
height altogether untenable to my 
abilities. 

For the honour Miss Williams has 
done me, please, sir, return her in my 
name my most grateful thanks. I 
have more than once thought of pay- 
ing her in kind, but have hitherto 
quitted the idea in hopeless despond- 
ency. I had never before heard of 
her; but the other day I got her poems, 
which for several reasons, some be- 
longing* to the head, and others the 
offspring of the heart, give me a great 
deal of pleasure. I have little preten- 
sions to critic lore; there are, I think, 
two characteristic features in her poetry 
— the unfettered wild flight of native 
genius, and the querulous, sombre, 
Mnderness of " time settled sorrow." 

I only know what pleases me, often 
without bemg abie to tell why. 

R. B. 



be ready i-n time, I will appear in my 
book, looking, like all other fooU, to 
my title-page. 

R. B. 



No. XLVIII. 
to JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ. 

Edinburgh, Feb. 24, 1787. 

My honoured Friend, — I will soon 
le with you now in guid black prent; 
— in a week or ten days at furthest. 
i am obliged, against my own wish, 
to print subscribers' names; so if any 
of my Ayr friends have subscription 
bills, they must be sent in to Creech 
directly. I am getting my phiz done 
by an eminent engraver, and, if it can 



No XLIX. 
TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

Edinburgh, Feb. 1787. j 
My Lord, — I wanted to purchase a 
profile of your lordship, which I was 
told was to be got in town; but I am 
truly sorry to see that a blundering 
painter has spoiled a "human face 
divine." The enclosed stanzas I in- 
tended to have written below a picture 
or profile of your lordship, could I 
have been so happy as to procure one 
with anything of a likeness. 

As I will soon return to my shades, 
I wanted to have something like a 
material object for my gratitude ; I 
wanted to have it in my power to say 
to a friend, There is my noble patroa 
my genero us benefactor. Allow me 
my lord, to publish these verses. 1 
conjure your lordship, by the honest 
throe of gratitude, by the generous 
wish of benevolence, by all the powers 
and feelings which compose the mag- 
nanimous mind, do not deny me this 
petition. I owe much to your lord- 
ship; and, what has not in some 
other instances always been the case 
with me, the weight of the oblig- 
ation is a pleasing load. I trust I 
have a heart as independent as your 
lordship's, than which I can say 
nothing more; and I would not be be- 
holden to favours that would crucify^ 
my feelings. Your dignified character 
in life, and manner of supporting that 
character, are flattering to my pride; 
and I would be jealous of the purity 
of my grateful attachment, where I 
was under the patronage of one of the 
much favoured sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his 
patrons, particularly when they were 
names dear to fame, and illustrious in 
their country; allow me then, my 
lord, if you think the verses have in- 
trinsic merit, to tell the world hQW 



^s 



BUHLS' WORKSL 



much I Lave the honour to be your 
lordship's highly-indebted, and ever- 
grateful humble servant, 

B. B. 



No. L. 



TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

Edinburgh, Feb. 1787. 

My Lord, — The honour your lord- 
ship has done me, by your notice and 
advice in yours of the 1st instant, I 
shall ever gratefully remember: — 

" Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to 
boast. 
They best can give it who deserve it most." 

Your lordship touches the darling 
chord of my heart when you advise mm 
to fire my Muse at Scottish story and 
Scottish scenes. I wish for nothing 
more than to make a leisurely pilgrim- 
age through my native country; to 
sit and muse on those once hard- con- 
tested fields, where Caledonia, re- 
joicing, saw her bloody lion borne 
through broken ranks to victory and 
fame; and catching the inspiration, to 
pour the deathless names in song. 
But, my lord, in the midst of these 
enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, 
dry, moral-looking phantom strides 
across my imagination, and pronounces 
these emphatic words: — 

" I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence. 
Friend, I do not come to open the ill- 
closed wounds of your follies and 
misfortunes merely to give you 
pain : I wish through these wounds to 
imprint a lasting lesson on your heart. 
1 will not mention how many of my 
salutary advices you have despised: I 
have given you line upon line and 
precept upon precept; and while I 
was chalking out to you the straight 
way to wealth and character, with 
aadacious effrontery you have zig- 
zaged across the path, contemning me 
to my face: you know the conse- 
quences. It is not yet three months 
since home was so hot for you that 
you were on the wing for the western 
shore of the Atlantic, not to make a 
fortune, but to hide your misfortune. 

" Now that your dear-loved Scotiai, 



puts it in your power to return ib the 
situation of your forefathers, wfll you 
follow these will-o'-wisp meteors of 
fancy and whim, till they bfiixp; you 
once more to the brink o^ ,ain ? .1 
grant that the utmost ground you can 
occupy is but half a step from the 
veriest poverty; but still it is half a 
step from it. If all that I can urge 
be ineffectual, let her who seldom 
calls to you in vain, let the call ol 
pride prevail with you. You know 
how you feel at the iron gripe of ruth- 
less oppression: you know how you 
bear the galling sneer of contumelious 
greatness. I hold you out the con- 
veniences, the comforts of life, inde- 
pendence, and character, on the one 
hand; 1 tender you civility, depend- 
ence, and wretchedness, on the other. 
I will not insult your understanding 
by bidding you make a choice." 

This, my lord, is unanswerable. 
I must return to my humble station, 
and woo my rustic Muse in my wont- 
ed way at the plough-tail. Still, my 
lord, while the drops of life warm my 
heart, gratitude to that dear loved 
country in which I boast my birth, 
and gratitude to those her distinguished 
sons who have honoured me so much 
with their patronage and approbation, 
shall, while stealing through my 
humble shades, ever distend my 
bosom, and at times, as now, draw 
forth the swelling tear.* 

R B. 



No. LL 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ, 

Edinburgh, March 8, 1787. 

Dear Sir, — Yours came safe, and I 
am as usual much indebted to your 

* Cunningham says of the Earl of Buchan, 
** He was one of the most economical of pa- 
trons ; lest the object of his kindness might 
chance to feel too heavily the debt of obliga- 
tion, he did not hesitate to allow a painter to 
present him with a picture, or a poet with 4 
poem. He advised Burns to make a pilgrim^ 
age to the scenes of Scotland's battles, in tti* 
hope perhaps that Ancrum Moor would be 
immortalised in song, and the name of the 
' Commendator of Dryburgh' included in thf 
strain," 



GSNSIIAL CORIRESPONDEKCE. 



goodness. Poor Captain M[ontgom- 
ery] is cast. Yesterday it was tried 
whether the husband could proceed 
against the unfortunate lover without 
first divorcing his wife, and their 
Gravities on the Bench were unani- 
mously of opinion that Maxwell may 
prosecute for damages, directly, and 
need not divorce his wife at all if he 
pleases; and Maxwell is immediately, 
before the Lord Ordinary, to prove, 
what I daresay will not be denied, the 
Crim. Couv — then their Lordship s will 
modify the damages, which I suppose 
will be pretty heavy, as their Wisdoms 
have expressed great abhorrence of 
my gallant Right Worshipful 
Brother's conduct. 

O all ye powers of love unfortunate 
and friendless woe, pour the balm of 
sympathising pity on the grief-torn, 
tender heart of the hapless Fair One! 

My two songs* on Miss W. Alex- 
ander and Miss P. Kennedy were like- 
wise tried yesterday by a jury of lit- 
erati, and found defamatory libels 
against the fastidious powers of Poesy 
and Taste; and the author forbidden 
to print them under pain of forfeiture 
of character. I cannot help almost 
shedding a tear to the memory of two 
songs that had cost me some pains, 
and that I valued a good deal, but I 
must submit. 

My most respectful compliments to 
Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy. 

My poor unfortunate songs come 
again across my memory. Damn 
the pedant, frigid soul of Criticism for 
ever and ever ! — I am ever, dear sir, 
your obliged 

Robert Burns. 



No. LIL 



TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH.f 

Edinburgh, March 21, 1787. 

My ever-dear old Acquaint- 
ance, — I was equally surprised and 



♦ The songs alluded to were " The Bonnie 
Lass of Ballochmyle, " and " The Banks o' 
Bonnie Doon." 

t Another of the poet's early friends. He 
fparried Miss Smith, oae of the six. belles of 



pleased at your letter, though I dare- 
say you will think by my delaying so 
long to write you that I am so 
drowned in the intoxication of good 
fortune as to be indifferent to old, and 
once dear, connexions. The truth is, 
I was determined to write a good let- 
ter, full of argument, amplification, 
erudition, and, as Bayes says, all that. 
1 thought of it, and thought of it, and, 
by my soul, I could not; and, lest you 
should mistake the cause of my si- 
lence, I just sit down to tell you so. 
Don't give yourself credit, though, 
that the strength of your logic scares 
me: the truth is I never mean to meet 
you on that ground at all. You have 
shown me one thing v. hich was to be 
demonstrated; that strong pride of 
reasoning, with a little aifectation of 
singularity, may mislead the best of 
hearts. I likewise, since you and I 
were first acquainted, in the pride of 
despising old women's stories, ven- 
tured in "the daring path Spinosa 
trod;" but experience of the weakness, 
not the strength of human powers, 
made me glad to grasp at revealed re- 
ligion. 

I am still, in the apostle Paul's 
phrase, " the old man with his deeds," 
as when we were sporting about the 
"Lady Thorn." I shall be four weeks 
here yet at least; and so I shall expect 
to hear from you; welcome sense, wel- 
come nonsense. — I am, with the 
warmest sincerity, 

R. B. 



No. LIII. 
TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR.* 

Lawnmarket, } 

Monday Morning, [March 1787.] f 

Dear Sir. — In justice to Spenser, I 
must acknowledge that there is scarce- 
ly a poet in the language could have 

Mauchline ; and a son of theirs is well known 
to all his countrymen as the Rev. Dr. Cand- 
lish of Free St George's Church, Edinburgh, 
—probably, since the death of Dr. Chalmers, 
the leading man in the Free Church. 

* This gentleman was the subject of the 
poet's song entitled, " Rattling, Roaring W:U 
lie." He was a writer t» the Si£;net m Edia» 



s:o 



BURNS' WORKS. 



been a more agreeable present to me; 
and in justice to you, allow me to say, 
sir, that 1 have not met with a man in 
Edinburgh to whom I would so will- 
ingly have been indebted for the gift. 
The tattered rhymes I herewith pre- 
sent you, and the handsome volumes 
of Spenser for which I am so much 
indebted to your goodness, may per- 
haps be not in proportion to one an- 
other; but be that as it may, my gift, 
though far less valuable, is as sincere 
a mark of esteem as yours^ 

The time is approaching when I 
shall return to my shades; and I am 
afraid my numerous Edinburgh friend- 
ships are of so tender a construction 
that they will not bear carriage with 
me. Yours is one of the few that I 
could wish of a more robust constitu- 
tion. It is indeed very probable that 
when I leave this city, we part never 
more to meet in, this sublunary sphere; 
but I have a strong fancy that in some 
future eccentric planet, the. comet of 
happier systems than any with which 
astronomy is yet acquainted, you and 
I, among the harum-scarum sons of 
imagination and whim, with a hearty 
shake of a hand, a metaphor and a 
laugh, shall recognise old acquaint- 
ance: — 

Where wit may sparkle all its rays, 
Uncursed with caution's fears ; 

That pleasure, basking in the blaze, 
Rejoice for endless years. 

I have the honour to be, with the 
warmest sincerity, dear sir, &c. , 

R. B. 



No. LIV. 

TO , 

ON fergusson's headstone. 

Edinburgh, March 1787. 

My dear Sir, — You may think, and 
too justly, that I am a selfish, ungrate- 
ful fellow, having received so many 
repeated instances of kindness from 

burgh. The letter was first published in 
Hogg and Motherwell's edition of the poet's 
works, and was rommunicated by Mr. P. 
Pucban of Aberueen. 



you, and yet never putting p4n to 
paper to say thank you, but if you 
knew what a devil of a life my con- 
science has led me on that account, 
your good heart would think yourself 
too much avenged. By the by, there 
is nothing in the whole frame of man 
which seems to be so unaccountable 
as that thing called conscience. Had 
the troublesome yelping cur powers 
efficient to prevent a mischief, he 
might be of use; but at the beginning 
of the business, his feeble efforts are 
to the workings of passion as the in- 
fant frosts of an autumnal morning to 
the unclouded fervour of the rising 
sun ; and no sooner are the tumultu- 
ous doings of the wicked deed over, 
than, amidst the bitter native conse- 
quences of folly, in the very vortex of 
our horrors, up starts conscience, and 
harrows us with the feelings of the 
damned. 

I have enclosed you, by way of ex- 
piation, some verse and prose, that, if 
they merit a place in your truly enter- 
taining miscellany, you are welcome 
to. The prose extract is literally as 
Mr. Sprott sent it me. 

The inscription on the stone is as 
follows: — 

"here lies ROBERT FERQUSSON, 
POET. 

"Born, September 5th, 1751 — Died, 
October 16th, 1774. 

"No sculptured marble here, nor pompous 
lay, 
* No storied urn nor animated bust ;' 
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust." 

On the other side of the stone is as 
follows: — 

" By special grant of the managers to Rob- 
ert Burns, who erected this stone, this burial- 
place is to remain for ever sacred to the mem- 
ory of Robert Fergusson." 

Session -house within the Kirk of 
Canongate, the twenty-second day of 
February, one thousand seven hundred 
and eighty-seven years. 

Sederunt of the Managers of the Kirk 
and Kirkyard funds of Canongate. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



371 



Wliicli day, the treasurer to the said 
funds produced a letter from Mr. Rob- 
ert Burns, of date the '6th current, 
which was read and appointed to be 
engrossed in their sederunt book, and 
of which letter the tenor follows: — 

" To the Honourable Bailies of Can- 
ongate, Edinburgh. — Gentlemen, lam 
sorry to be told that the remains of 
Robert Fergusson, the so justly cele- 
brated poet, a man whose talents for 
ages to come will do honour to our 
Caledonian name, lie in your church- 
yard among the ignoble dead, unno- 
ticed and unknown. 

" Some memorial to direct the steps 
of the lovers of Scottish song, when 
they wish to shed a tear over the ' nar- 
row house' of the bard who is no more, 
is surely a tribute due to Fergusson's 
memory; a tribute I wish to have the 
honour of paying. 

" I petition you, then, gentlemen, 
to permit me to lay a simple stone over 
his revered ashes, to remain an unal- 
ienable property to his deathless fame. 
— I have the honour to be, gentlemen, 
your very humble servant, (sic sub- 
scribitur,) 

Robert Burks." 

Thereafter the said managers, in 
consideration cf the laudable and dis- 
interested motion of Mr. Burns, and 
the propriety of his request, did, and 
hereby do, unanimously grant power 
and liberty to the said Robert Burns to 
erect a headstone at the grave of the 
said Robert Fergusson, and to keep up 
and preserve the same to his memory 
in all time coming.* Extracted forth 
of the records of the managers, by 
William Sprott, clerk. 



* Mr. Cunningham says :— From the sinking- 
©f the ground of the neighbouring graves, the 
headstone placed by Burns over Fergusson 
was thrown from its balance ; this was ob- 
served, soon after the death of the Bard of 
Ayr, by the Esculapian Club of Edinburgh, 
who, animated by that pious z6al for departed 
merit which had before led them to prevent 
some other sepulchral monuments from going 
to ruin, refixed the original stone, and added 
some iron work, with an additional inscrip- 
tion to the memory of Burns. The poetical 
part of it is taken, almost verbatim, from the 
Blegy on Captain Matthew Henderson :— 



No. LV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, March 22, 1787. 

Madam. — I read your letter with 
watery eyes. A little, very little while 
ago, 1 had scarce a friend but the stub- 
born pride of my own bosom; now I 

*' Dignum laude verum Musa vetat mori. 
Lo ! Genius, proudly, while to Fame she 

turns. 
Twines Currie's laurels with the wreath of 
Burns." — Roscoe. 

To the Memory of 
ROBERT BURNS. THE AYRSHIRE 
BARD; 

WHO WAS BORN AT DOONSIDE, 

On the 25th of January 1759 ; 

AND DIED AT DUMFRIES, 

On the 22d of July 1796. 

" O Robert Burns ! the Man. the Brother . 
And art thou gone— and gone for ever ! 
And hast thou cross'd that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound ! 
Like thee, where shall we find another, 
The world around ! 

" Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great. 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by thy honest turf I'll wait. 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the sweetest poet's fate, 

E'er lived on earth." 

To have raised one solid monument of ma- 
sonry to both, working Fergusson's head- 
stone into one side of the structure, and plac- 
ing the Burns inscription on the other, would 
perhaps have been more judicious. — See letter 
to Mr. Peter Hill, dated Feb. 5, 1792, relative 
to this monument. 

On the subject of Fergusson's headstone we 
find the following letter in Dr. Currie's edi- 
tion of the poet's works : — 

March 8, i', 87. 

I AM truly happy to know that you have 

found a friend in ; his patronage of you 

does him great honour. He is truly a good 
man ; by far the best I ever knew, or perhaps 
ever shall know, in this world. But I must 
not speak all I think of him, lest I should be 
thought partial. 

So you have obtained liberty from the mag- 
istrates to erect a stone over Fergussoirs 
grave ? I do not doubt it ; such things have 
been, as Shakespeare says, "in the olden 
time ;" 

" The poet's fate is here in emblem shown, 
He ask'd for bread, and he received « 



It is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb 
that this is written. But how many brothers 
of Parnassus, as well as poor Butler and poo* 



g:3 



BUBNS' WORKS. 



am distinguislied, patronised, be- 
friended by you. Your friendly ad- 
vices — I will not give them the cold 
pame of criticisms — I receive with 
reverence. I have made some small 

Fergusson, have asked for bread, and been 
served with the same sauce ! 

The magistrates ^rtz/^^tf« liberty^ did they ? 

O generous magistrates! , celebrated over 

the three kingdoms for his public spirit, gives 
a poor poet liberty to raise a tomb" to a poor 

poet's memory ! most generous ! , once 

upon a time, gave that same poet the mighty 
sum of eighteenpence for a copy of his works. 
But then it must be considered that the poet 
was at that time absolutely starving, and be- 
sought his aid with all the earnestness of hun- 
ger. And over and above he received a , 

worth at least one-third of the value, in ex- 
change ; but which, I believe, the poet after- 
wards very ungratefully expunged. 

Next week I hope to have the pleasure of 
seeing you in Edinburgh ; and, as my stay 
will be for eight or ten days, I wish you or 

would take a snug, well-aired bedroom 

for me, where I may have the pleasure of see- 
ing you over a morning cup of tea. But by 
all accounts it will be a matter of some diffi- 
culty to- see you at all, unless your company is 
bespoke a week beforehand. There is a great 
rumour here concerning your great intimacy 

with the Duchess of , and other ladies of 

distinction. I am really told that 

*' Cards to invite fly by thousands each 
night :" 
and if you had one, I suppose there would 
also be "bribes to your old secretary." It 
seems you are resolved to make hay while the 
sun shines, and avoid, if possible, the fate of 
poor Fergusson, .... Qucerenda pecunia 
prhnuni est, virtus post nummos^ is a good 
maxim to thrive by : you seemed to despise it 
while in this part of the country, but probably 
some philosopher in Edinburgh has taught 
you better sense. 

Pray are you yet engraving as well as print- 
ing—are you yet seized 

" Withitchof picture in the front. 
With bays and wicked rhyme upon't ?" 

But I must give up this trifling, and attend 
to matters that more concern myself ; so, as 
the Aberdeen wit says, ''^ Adieu ^ dryly; we 
sal drink fan we meet." 

''The above extract," says Dr. Currie, "is 
from a letter of one of the ablest of our poet's 
correspondents, which contains some interest- 
ing anecdotes of Fergusson. The writer is 
mistaken in supposing the magistrates of Ed- 
inburgh had any share in the transaction 
respecting the monument erected for Fergus- 
son by our bard ; this, it is evident, passed 
between Burns and the Kirk-Session of the 
Canongate. Neither at Edinburgh, nor any- 
where else, do magistrates usually trouble 
themselves to inquire how the house of a poor 
poet is furnished, or how his grave is 
adorned." 



alterations in what I before had 
printed. I have the advice of some 
very judicious friends among the lit- 
erati here, but with them I sometimes 
find it necessary to claim the privilege 
of thinking for myself. The noble 
Earl of Glencairn, to whom I owe 
more than to any man, does me the 
honour of giving me his strictures; his 
hints with respect to impropriety or 
indelicacy I follow implicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my 
future views and prospects, there 1 
can give you no light. It is all 

" Dark as was Chaos ere the infant sun 
Wasroll'd together, or had tried his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound." 

The appellation of a Scottish bard is 
by far my highest pride; to continue 
to deserve it is my most exalted am- 
bition. Scottish scenes and Scottish 
story are the themes I could wish to 
sing. I have no dearer aim than to 
have it in my power, unplagued with 
the routine of business, for which 
Heaven knows I am unfit enough, to 
make leisurely pilgrimages through 
Caledonia; to sit on the fields of her 
battles; to wander on the romantic 
banks of her rivers ; and to muse by 
the stately towers or venerable ruins, 
once the honoured abodes of her heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts: 
I have dallied long enough with life; 
'tis time to be in earnest. I have a 
fond, an aged mother to care for; and 
some other bosom ties perhaps equally 
tender. Where the individual only 
suffers by the consequences of his own 
thoughtlessness, indolence, or folly, 
he may be excusable; nay, shining 
abilities, and some of the nobler vir- 
tues, may half sanctify a heedless 
character; but where God and nature 
have intrusted the welfare of others 
to his care, where the trust is sacred, 
and the ties are dear, that man must 
be far gone in selfishness, or strangely 
lost to reflection, whom these con 
nexions will not rouse to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear between 
two and three hundred pounds by my 
authorship !* with that sum I intend, 

* The clear profit realised has been assumed 
to be seven hundred pounds. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



373 



so far as I may be said to have any in- 
tention, to return to my old acquaint- 
anc^j, tlie plough, and, if 1 can meet 
With a lease, by which I can live, to 
commence farmer. I do not intend to 
give up poetry; being bred to labour, 
secures me independence, and the 
Muses are my chief, sometimes have 
been my only, enjoyment. If my 
Jractice second my resolution, I shall 
nave principally at heart the serious 
business of life; but while following 
my plough, or building up my shocks, 
I shall cast a leisure glance to that 
dear, that only feature of my charac- 
ter, which gave me the notice of my 
country, and the patronage of a Wal- 
lace. 

Thus, honoured madam, I have 
given you the bard, his situation, and 
his views, native as they are in his 
own bosom. R. B. 



No. LVI. 
TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, April 15, 1787. 
Madam, — There is an affectation of 
gratitude which I dislike. The 
periods of Johnson and the pauses of 
Sterne may hide a selfish heart. For 
my part, madam, I trust I have too 
much pride for servility, and too little 
prudence for selfishness. I have this 
moment broken open your letter, but 

" Rude am I in speech, 
And therefore little can I grace my cause 
In speaking for myself ;" 

SO I shall not trouble you with any 
fine speeches and hunted figures. I 
shall just lay my hand on my heart 
and say, I hope I shall ever have the 
truest, the warmest sense of your 
goodness. 

I come abroad in print for certain on 
Wednesday. Your orders I shall 
punctually attend to; only by the way, 
I must tell you that I was paid before 
for Dr. Moore's and Miss Williams' 
copies, through the medium of Com- 
missioner Cochrane in this place, but 
that we can settle when I have the 
honour of waiting on you. 



Dr. Smith* was just gone to Lon- 
don the morning before I received 
your letter to him. 

R. B. 



No. LVIL 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, April 23, 1787. 
I RECEIVED the books, and sent the 
one you mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I 
am ill skilled in beating the coverts of 
imagination for metaphors of grati- 
tude. I thank you, sir, for the honour 
you have done me; and to my latest 
hour will warmly remember it. To 
be highly pleased with your book is 
what I am in common with the world; 
but to regard these volumes as a 
mark of the author's friendly esteem 
is a still more supreme gratification. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course of 
ten days or a fortnight, and, after a 
few pilgrimages over some of the 
classic ground of Caledonia, — Cowdeu 
Knowes, Banks of Yarrow, Tweed, 
&c. , — I shall return to my rural 
shades, in all likelihood never more to 
quit them. I have formed many in- 
timacies and friendships here, but I, 
am afraid they are all of too tender a 
construction to bear carriage a hun- 
dred and fifty miles. To the rich, 
the great, the fashionable, the polite, 
I have no equivalent to offer; and I 
am afraid my meteor appearance will 
by no means entitle me to a settled cor- 
respondence with any of you, who are 
the permanent lights of genius and 
literature. 

My most respectful compliments to 
Miss Williams. If once this tangent 
flight of mine were over, and I were 
returned to my wonted leisurely 
motion in my own circle, I may prob- 
ably endeavour to return her poetic 
compliment in kind. 

R. B. 



* Adam Smith, the distinguished author of 
" The Wealth of Nations." &c. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. LVIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, April 30, 1787. 

— • Your criticisms, madam, I un- 
derstand very well, and could have 
wished to have pleased you better. 
You are right in your guess that I am 
not very amenable to counsel. Poets, 
much my superiors, have so flattered 
those who possessed the adventitious 
qualities of wealth and power, that I 
am determined to flatter no created 
being, either in prose or verse. 

I set as little by princes, lords, 
clergy, critics, &c. , as all these respec- 
tive gentry do by my hardship. I 
know what I may expect from the 
world by and by — illiberal abuse, and 
perhaps contemptuous neglect. 

I am happy, madam, that some of 
my own favourite pieces are distin- 
guished by your particular approba- 
tion. For my " Dream,"* which has 
■unfortunately incurred your loyal dis- 
pleasure, I hope in four weeks, or less 
to have the honour of appearing at 
Dunlop in its defenc. in person. 

R. B. 



No. LIX.t 

TO JAMES JOHNSON, EDITOR 

OF THE "SCOTS MUSICAL 

MUSEUM." 

Lawnmarket, Friday Noon, May 3, 1787. 

Dear Sir, — I have sent you a 

song never before known, for your 
collection; the air by Mr. Gibbon, but 
I know not the author of the words, 
as I got it from Dr. Blacklock. 

Farewell, my dear sir ! 1 wished to 
have seen you, but I have been dread- 
fully throng, as I march to-morrow. 
Had my acquaintance with you been a 



* The well-known poem, beginning, " Guid 
morning to your Majesty," (see p. 84.) Mrs. 
Dunlop had probably recommended its being 
omitted in the second edition, on the score of 
prudence.— Cunningham. 

t This letter first appeared in Hogg and 
Motherwell's edition of the poet's works. 



little older, I would have asked the 
favour of your correspondence; as 
I have met with few people whose 
company and conversation gave me so 
much pleasure, because 1 have met 
with few whose sentiments are so con- 
genial to my own. 

When Dunbar and you meet, tell 
him that I left Edinburgh with the 
idea of him hanging somewhere a))outj 
my heart. ' 

Keep the original of this song till 
we meet again, whenever that may be. 

R. B. 



No. LX. 



TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BlAIR. 

Lawnmarket, Edinburgh, ) 
May 3, 1787. j 

Reverend and much-respected 
Sir, — I leave Edinburgh to-morrow 
morning, but could not go without 
troubling you with half a line sincerely 
to thank yoa for the kindness, patron- 
age, and friendship you have shown 
me, I often felt the embarrassment of 
my singular situation; drawn forth 
from the veriest shades of life to the 
glare of remark; and honoured by the 
notice of those illustrious names of my 
country whose works, while they are 
applauded to the end of time, will ever 
instruct and mend the heart. How- 
ever the meteor-like novelty of. my 
appearance in the world might attract 
notice, and honour me with the ac- 
quaintance of the permanent lights of 
genius and literature, those who are 
truly benefactors of the immortal 
nature of man, I know very well that 
my utmost merit was far unequal to the 
task of preserving that character when 
once the novelty was over; I have 
made up my mind that abuse, or 
almost even neglect, will net surprise 
me in my quarters. 

I have sent you a proof impression 
of Beugo's work* for me, done on In- 
dian paper, as a trifling but sincere 
testimony with what heart- warm grati- 
tude 1 am, &c., 

R. B. 



The portrait of th« poet after Nasmyth. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



m 



No. LXI. 

TO WILLIAM CREECH, ESQ., 

EDINBURGH. 

Selkirk, May 13, 1787. 

Mt honoured Friend, — The en- 
closed I have just wrote, nearly extem- 
pore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after 
a miserable wet day's riding. I have 
been over most of East Lothian, Ber- 
wick, Roxburgh, and Selkirk shires; 
and next week I begin a tour through 
the north of England. Yesterday I 
dined with Lady Harriet, sister to my 
noble patron,* Quern Deus conservet ! 
I would write till I would tire you as 
much with dull prose, as I daresay by 
this time you are with wretched verse, 
but I am jaded to death; so, with a 
grateful farewell, I have the honour to 
be, good sir, yours sincerely. 

R. B. 
Auld chuckie-Reekie's t sair distrest, 
Down droops her ance weel burnish'd crest, 
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest 

Can yield ava ; i 
Her darling bird that she lo'es best, ] 

Willie's awa. - -^ 



No. LXII. 

TO MR. PATISON, BOOKSELLER, 

PAISLEY. 

Berrywell, near Dunse, May 17, 1787. 

Dear Sir, — I am sorry I was out of 
Edinburgh, making a slight pilgrimage 
to the classic scenes of this country, 
when I was favoured with yours of the 
11th instant, enclosing an order of the 
Paisley Banking Company on the Royal 
Bank, for twenty-two pounds seven 
shillings sterling, payment in full, 
after carriage deducted, for ninety 
copies of my book I sent you. Accord- 
ing to your motions, I see you will have 
left Scotland before this reaches you, 
otherwise I would send you " Holy 
Willie" with all my heart. I was so 
hurried that I absolutely forgot several 
things I ought to have minded, among 



* James, Earl of Glencairn. 
t Edinburgh. 



the rest, sending books to Mr. Cowan; 
but any order of yours will be answered 
at Creech's shop. You will please re- 
member that non -subscribers pay six 
shillings; this is Creech's profit; but 
those who have subscribed, though 
their names have been neglected in the 
printed list, which is very incorrect, 
they are supplied at the subscription 
price. 

I was not at Glasgow, nor do I in- 
tend for London; and I think Mrs. 
Fame is very idle to tell so many lies 
on a poor poet. When you or Mr. 
Cowan write for copies, if you should 
want any, direct to Mr. Hill, at Mr. 
Creech's shop, and I write to Mr. Hill 
by this post, to answer either of your 
orders. Hill is Mr. Creech's first clerk, 
and Creech himself is presently in 
London. I suppose I shall have the 
pleasure, against your return to Pais- 
ley, of assuring you how much I am, 
dear sir, your obliged humble servant, 

R. B. 



No. LXIII. 

TO MR. W. NICOL,* MASTER OP 

THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDIN- 

BURGH. 

^- Carlisle, June i, 1787. 

Kind, honest-hearted Willie,— 
I'm sitten doun here, after seven-and- 
forty miles' ridin', e'en as forjesket and 
forniaw'd as a forfochten cock, to gie 
ye some notion o' my land-lowper-like 
stravagin sin the sorrowfu' hour that I 
sheuk hands and parted wi' Auld 
Reekie. 

My auld, ga'd gleyde o' a meere has 
huchyall'd up hill and doun brae, in 
Scotland and England, as teugh and 



* Mr. W. Nicol was an intimate friend of 
Burns', and one of the masters of the High 
School. He accompanied him in his tour 
through the Highlands, and proved himself 
somewhat troublesome as a travelling com- 
panion, compelling the poet again and again 
to go and come as he listed. He was fond of 
good company, and good eating and driak- 
iag, and died prematurely in 1797. 



e^8 



BTTHNS* WOMS. 



birnie as a vera devil wi' me.* It's 
true, she's as poor's a sang-maker and 
as hard's a kirk, and tipper-taipers 
when she taks the gate, first like a 
lady's gentlewoman in a minuwae, or 
a hen on a het girdle; but she's a yauld, 
poutherie girian for a' that, and has a 
stomach like Willie Stalker's meere 
that wad hae digested tumbler- wheels, 
for she'll whip me all her five stim- 
parts o' the best aits at a doun-sittin' 
and ne'er fash her thumb. When ance 
her ringbanes and spa vies, her crucks 
and cramps, are fairly soupl'd she 
beets to, beets to, and aye the hind- 
most hour the tightest. I could wager 
her price to a thretty pennies, that for 
twa or three ooks' ridin' at fifty mile a 
day, the deil-sticket a five gallopers 
acqueesh Clyde and Whithorn could 
cast saut on her tail. 

I hae dander'd owre a' the kmtra f rae 
Dumbar to Selcraig, and hae for- 
gather'd wi' mony a guid fallow, and 
monie a weelfaur'd hizzie. I met wi' 
twa dink queynes in particular, ane o' 
them a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass, baith 
braw and bonnie; the tither was a 
clean-shankit, straught, tight, weel- 
far'd winch, as blithe's a lintwhite on 
a flowrie thorn, and as sweet and 
modest's a new-blawn plumrose in a 
hazle shaw. They were baith bred to 
mainers by the beuk, and onie ane o' 
them had as muckle smeddum and 
rumblegumption as the half o' some 
presbytries that you and I baith ken. 
They play'd me sic a deevil o' a sha 
vie that I daur say, if my harigals were 
turned out, ye wad see twa nicks i' the 
heart o' me like the mark o' a kail 
whittle in a castock. 

I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, 
but, Gude forgie me, I gat mysel sae 
noutouriously bitchify'd the day, after 
kail -time, that I can hardly stoiter but 
and ben. 

My best respecks to the guidwife and 
a' our common friens, especiall Mr. 

♦ This mare was the poet's favourite Jenny 
Geddes. " She was named by him," says 
Cromek, "after the old woman who, in her 
zeal against religious innovation, threw a 
stool at the Dean of Edinburgh's head when 
he attempted, in 1637, to introduce the Scot- 
iisb Liturg;y." 



and Mrs. Cruikshank. and the honest 
guidman o' Jock's Lodge. 

I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the 
beast be to the fore, and the brar^s bide 
hale. Gude be wi' you, Willie! AmenI 

B. B. 



« 



No. LXIV. 

TO MR. JAMES SMITH, AT MIL. 
LER AND SMITH'S OFFICE, LIN- 
LITHGOW. 

Mauchline June 11, 1787. 

My dear Sir, — I date this from 
Mauciiline, where I arrived on Friday 
evening last. I slept at John Dow's, 
and called for my daughter; Mr, Ham- 
ilton and family; your mother, sister, 
and brother; my quondam Eliza, &c., 
all — all well. If anything had been 
wanting to disgust me completely at 
Armour's family, their mean servile 
compliance would have done it. Give 
me a spirit like my favourite hero, Mil- 
ton's Satan: — 

" Hail, horrors ! hail, 
Infernal world ! and thou, profoundest hell, 
Receive thy new possessor ! one who brings 
A mmd not to be changed hy place or timet" 

I cannot settle to my mind. Farm- 
ing—the only thing of which I know 
anything, and Heaven above knows 
but little do I understand even of that 
— I cannot, dare not, risk on farms 
as they are. If I do not fix, I will go 
for Jamaica. Should I stay in an un- 
settled state at home, I would only 
dissipate my little fortune, and ruin 
what I intend shall compensate my 
little ones for the stigma I have brought 
on their names. 

I shall write you more at large soon; 
as this letter costs you no postage, if it 
be worth reading you cannot complain 
of your pennyworth. I am ever, my 
dear sir, yours, R. B. 



No. LXV. 
TO MR. WILLIAM NICOL. 

Mauchline, June 18, 1787. 

My dear Friend, — I am noA< 
arrived safe in my native country, 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



377 



after a very agreeable jaunt, and have 
the pleasure to find all my friends 
well. I breakfasted with your gray- 
headed, reverend friend, Mr. Smith; 
and was highly pleased both with the 
cordial welcome he gave me, and his 
most excellent appearance and sterling 
good sense. 

I have been with Mr. Miller at Dal- 
swinton, and am to meet him again in 
August. From m}' views of the land, 
and his reception of my hardship, my 
hopes in that business are rather 
mended; but still they are but slen- 
der. 

I am quite charmed with Dumfries 
folks — Mr. Burnside, the clergyman, 
in particular, is a man whom I shall 
ever gratefully remember; and his 
wife — Gude forgie me ! I had almost 
broke the tenth commandment on her 
account. Simplicity, elegance, good 
sense, sweetness of disposition, good 
humour, kind hospitality, are the con- 
stituents of her manner and heart; in 
short — but if I say one word more 
about her, I shall be directly in love 
with her. 

I never, my friend, thought man- 
kind very capable of anything gener- 
ous; but the stateliness of tlie patri- 
cians in Edinburgh, and the servility 
of my plebeian brethren (who perhaps 
formerly eyed me askance) since I re- 
turned home, have nearly put me out 
of conceit altogether with my species. 
I have bought a pocket Milton, which 
I carry perpetually about with me, in 
order to study the sentiments — the 
dauntless magnanimity, the intrepid, 
unyielding independence, the desper- 
ate daring, and noble defiance of hard- 
ship, in that great personage Satan. 
'Tis true, I have just now a little cash; 
but I am afraid the star that hitherto 
has shed its malignart, purpose-blast- 
ing rays full in my zenith; that nox- 
ious planet, so baneful in its influences 
to the rhyming tribe, I much dread it 
is not yet beneath my horizon. — Mis- 
fortune dodges the path of human life ; 
the poetic mind finds itself miserably 
deranged in, and unfit for, the walks 
of business; add to all, that thought- 
legs fQllies aad Ijarebramed whims, 



like so many ignes fatui, eternally 
diverging from the right line of sober 
discretion, sparkle with step-bewitch- 
ing blaze in the idly-gazing eyes of the 
poor heedless bard, till, pop, "befalls 
like Lucifer, never to hope again." 
God grant this may be an unreal pic- 
ture with respect to me ! but should it 
not, I have very little dependence on 
mankind. I will close my letter with 
this tribute my heart bids me pay you 
— the many ties of acquaintance and 
friendship which I have, or think I 
have in life, I have felt along the 
lines, and, damn them, they are al- 
most all of them of such frail contex- 
ture that I am sure they would not 
stand the breath of the least adverse 
breeze of fortune; but from you, my 
ever-dear sir, I look with confidence 
for the apostolic love that shall wait 
on me ' ' through good report and bad 
report " — the love which Solomon em- 
phatically says "is strong as death." 
My compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and 
all the circle of our common friends. 

P. 8.— I shall be in Edinburgh 
about the latter end of July. 

R. B. 



No. LXYI. 

TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH. 

Edinburgh, 1787. 

My dear Friend, — If once I were 
gone from this scene of hurry and dis- 
sipation, I promise myself the pleasure 
of that correspondence being renewed 
which has been so long broken. At 
present I have time for nothing. Dis- 
sipation and business engross every 
moment. I am engaged in assisting 
an honest Scotch enthusiast,* a friend 
of mine, who is an engraver, and has 
taken it into his head to publish a col- 
lection of all our songs set to music, 
of which the words and music are 
done by Scotsmen, This, you will 
easily guess, is an undertaking exactly 
to my taste. I have collected, begged, 
borrowed, and stolen all the songs I 
could meet with. " Pompey's Ghost," 

* Johnson, the publisher and proprietor qI 
the MnsJci^i Mmeum, 



878 



BURNS' WORKS. 



words and music, I beg from you im- 
mediately, to go into £is second num- 
ber — the first is already published. I 
shall show you the first number when 
I see you in Glasgow, which will be 
in a fortnight or less. Do be so kind 
as to send me the song in a day or 
two : you cannot imagine how much it 
will oblige me. 

Direct to me at Mr. W. Cruik- 
shank's, St. James's Square, New 
Town, Edinburgh. 

R. B. 



No. LXVII. 

TO WILLIAM NICOL, ESQ. 

AucHTERTYRE,* Monday, June 1787. 

My dear Sir, — I find myself very 
comfortable here, neither oppressed by 
ceremony nor mortified by neglect. 
Lady Augusta is a most engaging 
woman, and very happy in her family, 
which makes one's out-goings and in- 
comings very agreeable. I called at 
Mr. Ramsay's of Auchtertyrc [Ochter- 
tyre, near Stirling] as I came up the 
country, and am so delighted with 
him that I shall certainly accept of his 
invitation to spend a day or two with 
him as I return. I leave this place on 
Wednesday or Thursday. 

Make my kind compliments to Mr. 
and Mrs. Cruikshank, and Mrs. Nicol, 
if she is returned. — I am ever, dear sir, 
your deeply-indebted, 

R. B. 



No. LXVIII. 

TO WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK, 

ST. JAMES'S SQUARE, 

EDINBURGH.! 

AucHTERTYRE, Monday, June 1787. 

I HAVE nothing, my dear sir, to 
write to you, but that I feel myself 

* The seat of Sir William Murray, Bart.— 
two miles from Crieff. 

t Burns resided with Cruikshank in the lat- 
ter part of 1787, in St. James' Square. The 
"dear little Jeanie" of the letter was the 
^ JCosebu^" of bis poem, p. iw, 



exceedingly comfortably situated ii 
this good family: just notice enougl 
to make me easy, but not to embar- 
rass me. I was storm-stayed twc 
days at the foot of the Ocliil Hills, 
with Mr. Tait of Herveyston and Mr, 
Johnston of Alva, but was so wel] 
pleased that I shall certainly spend 
day on the banks of the Devon as 1 re- 
turn. I leave this place I suppose or 
Wednesday, and shall devote a day tc 
Mr. Ramsay at Auchtertyre, neai 
Stirling: a man to whose worth I can-i 
not do justice. My respectful kin< 
compliments to Mrs. Cruikshank, an< 
my dear little Jeanie, and, if you 
Mr. Masterton, please remember me 
him — I am ever, my dear sir, &c. , 

R. B. 



No. LXIX. 

TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

Arrochar, June 28, 1787. 

My dear Sir, — I write you this on 
my tour through a country where sav- 
age streams tumble over savage moun- 
tains: thinly over-spread with savage 
flocks, which starvingly support as 
savage inhabitants. My last stage 
was Inverary — to-morrow night's stage 
Dumbarton. I ought sooner to have 
answered your kind letter, but you 
know I am a man of many sins. 

. R. B. 



' No. LXX. 

TO MR. JAMES SMITH. AT 

MILLER AND SMITH'S OFFICE, 

LINLITHGOW. 

June 30, 1787. 
My dear Friend, — On our return, 
at a Highland gentleman's hospitable 
mansion, we fell in with a merry 
party, and danced till the ladies left 
us at three in the morning. Our dan- 
cing was none of the French 3r Eng- 
lish insipid formal movements. The 
ladies sang Scotch songs at intervals 
like angels; then we flew at " Bab at 
tJiQ 5QW§t§?." " TvOlochgorum," 



GENERAL CORBESPONDENCE. 



373 



"Loclierroch Side,"* &c., like midges 
&porting in the mottie sun, or craws 
prognosticating a storm in a hairs t 
day. When the dear lasses left us, 
we ranged round the bowl, till the 
good-fellow hour of six ; except a few 
minutes that we went out to pay our 
devotions to the glorious lamp of day 
peering over the towering top of Ben- 
lomond. We all kneeled. Our 
worthy landlord's son held the bowl, 
each man a full glass in his hand, and 
I, as priest, repeated some rhyming 
nonsense: like Thomas the Rhymer's 
prophecies, I suppose. 

After a small refreshment of the 
gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to 
.spend the day on Lochlomond, and 
reached Dumbarton in the evening. 
We dined at another good felloM^'s 
house, and consequently pushed the 
bottle; when we went out to mount our 
horses, we found ourselves " no very 
fou, but gayly yet." My two friends 
and I rode soberly down the loch side, 
till by came a Highlandman at the 
gallop on a tolerably good horse, but 
which had never known the orna- 
ments of iron or leather. We scorned 
to be out galloped by a Highlandman, 
so off we started, whip and spur. My 
companions, though seemingly gaily 
mounted, fell sadly astern; but my 
old mare, Jenny Geddes, one of the 
Rosinante family, strained past the 
Highlandman, in spite of all his efforts 
with the hair halter. Just as I was 
passing him, Donald wheeled his 
horse, as if to cross before me to mar 
my progress, when down came his 
. horse, and threw his rider's breekless 
bottom into a dipt hedge, and down 
came Jenny Geddes over all, and my 
hardship between her and the High- 
landman's horse. Jenny trode over 
me with such cautious reverence that 
matters were not so bad as might well 
have been expected; so I came ofE 
with a few cuts and bruises, and a 
thorough resolution to be a pattern of 
sobriety for the future. As for the 
rest of my acts and my wars, and all 
my wise sayings, and why my mare 
was called Jenny Geddes," they shall 



be recorded, in a few weeks hence at 
Linlithgow, in the chronicles of youl* 
memory. 

R. B. 



* Scotch tunes. 



No. LXXI. 

TO THE SAME. 

June, 1787. 

I HAVE yet fixed on nothing with re- 
spect to the serious business of life. I 
am just as usual — a rhyming, mason- 
making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. 
However, I shall somewhere have a 
farm soon — I was going to say a wife 
too: but that must never be my blessed 
lot. I am but a younger son of the 
house of Parnassus; and, like other 
younger sons of great families, I may 
intrigue, if I choose to run all risks, 
but must not marry. 

I am afraid I have almost ruined one 
source, the principal one indeed, of my 
former happiness — that eternal pro- 
pensity I always had to fall in love. 
My heart no more glows with feverish 
rapture. I have no paradisiacal even- 
ing interviews, stolen from the restless 
cares and prying inhabitants of this 

weary world. I have only . This 

last is one of your distant acquaintan- 
ces, has a fine figure, elegant manners, 
and, in the train of some great folks 
whom you know, has seen the politest 
quarters in Europe. I do like her 
a deal; but what piques me is her con- 
duct at the commencement of our ac- 
quaintance. I frequently visited her 

when I was in , and after passing 

regularly the intermediate degrees be- 
tween the distant formal bow and the 
familiar grasp round the waist, I ven- 
tured, in my careless way, to talk of 
friendship in rather ambiguous terms; 

and after her return to , I wrote to 

her in the same style. Miss, constru- 
ing my words further, I suppose, than 
even I intended, flew off in a tangent 
of female dignity and reserve, like a 
mounting lark in an April morning; 
and wrote me an answer which meas- 
ured me out very completely what an 
immense way I had to travel before 1 
could reach the climate of her favour, , 



'Seo 



BtTRNS' WOUKS. 



But I am an old hawk at tlie sport, 
and wrote her such a cool, deliberate, 
prudent reply, as" brought my bird 
from her aerial towerings, pop down 
at my foot, like Corporal Trim's hat. 

R. B. 



No. LXXII. 
TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. 

MossGiEL, July 7, 1787. 

My dear Richmond, — I am all im- 
patience to hear of your fate since the 
old confo under of right and wrong has 
turned you out of place, by his journey 
to answer his indictment at the bar of 
the other world. He will find the prac- 
tice of the court so different from the 
practice in which he has for so many 
years been thoroughly hackneyed, that 
Ills friends, if he had any connexions 
truly of that kind, which I rather 
doubt, may well tremble for his sake. 
His chicano, his left-handed wisdom, 
which stood so firmly by him, to such 
good purpose, here, like other accom- 
plices in robbery and plunder, will, 
now the piratical business is blown, in 
all probability turn king's evidences, 
and then the devil's bagpiper will 
touch him off — " Bundle and go I" 

. If he has left you any legacy, I beg 
your pardon for all this; if not, I know 
you will swear to every word I said 
about him ; 

I have lately been rambling over by 
Dumbarton and Inverary, and running 
a drunken race on the side of Loch 
Lomond with a wild Highlandman; 
his horse, which had never known the 
ornaments of iron or leather, zig- zag- 
ged across before my old spavined 
hunter, whose name is Jenny Geddes, 
and down came the Highlandman, 
horse and all, and down came Jenny 
and my hardship; sol have got such a 
skinful of bruises and wounds that I 
shall' be at least four weeks before I 
venture on my journey to Edinburgh. 

Not one new th'mg under the sun has 
happened in Mauchline since you left 
it. I hope this will find j'ou as com- 
fortably situated as formerly, or, if 
Heaven pleases, more so; but, at all 



events, I trust you will let me know, 
of course, how matters stand with you, 
well or ill. 'Tis but poor consolation 
to tell the world when matters gg 
wrong; but you know very well yoai 
connexion and mine stands on a differ* 
ent footing. I am ever, my deal 
friend, yours, R. B. 









No. LXXIII. 
TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

Mauchline, July 1787. 

My deab Sm, — My life, since I saw 
you last, has been one continued 
hurry; that savage hospitality which; 
knocks a man down with strong^ 
liquors is the devil. I have a sore war-' 
fare in this world; the devil, the world' 
and the flesh are three formidable- 
foes. The first I generally try to fly 
from; the second, alas ! generally flies 
from me; but the third is my plague, 
worse than the ten plagues of Egypt. 

I have been looking over several, 
farms in this country; one in particu-; 
lar, in Nithsdale, pleased me so well; 
that, if my offer to the proprietor is ac-' 
cepted, I shall commence farmer at, 
Whitsunday. If farming do not ap- 
pear eligible, I shall have recourse to; 
my other shift;* but this to a friend. 

I set out for Edinburgh on Mondays 
morning, how lon^ I stay there is un. 
certain, laut you will know so soon as I 
can inform you myself. However T 
determine, poesy must be laid aside 
for some time; my mind has beer 
vitiated with idleness, and it will tak€ 
a good deal of effort to habituate it tc 
the routine of business. I am, mj 
dear sir, yours sincerely, R. B, 



No. LXXIV. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Mauchline, Aug. 2, 1787. 

Sm, — For some months past, I have 
been rambling over the country, but 
am now confined with some lingering 

* The Excise. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



m 



complaints, originating, as I take it, 
in the stomach. To divert my spirits 
a little in this miserable fog of ennui, 
I have taken a whim to give you a 
history of myself. My name has made 
some little noise in this country; you 
have done me the honour to interest 
yourself very warmly in my behalf; 
and I think a faithful account of what 
character of a man I am, and how I 
came by that character, may perhaps 
amuse you in an idle nioment. I will 
give you an honest narrative, though I 
know it will be often at my own ex- 
pense; for I assure you, sir, I have, 
like Solomon, whose character, ex- 
cepting in the trifling affair of wisdom, 
I sometimes think 1 resemble — I have, 
I say, like him turned my eyes to be- 
hold madness and folly, ana like him, 
too, frequently shaken hands with 
their intoxicating friendship. After 
you have perused these pages, should 
you think them trifling and imperti- 
nent, 1 only beg leave to tell you that 
the poor author wrote them under 
some twitching qualms of conscience, 
arising from a suspicion that he was 
doing what he ought not to do; a 
predicament he has more than once 
been in before.* 



No. LXXV. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE, JUN. , 

BERRYWELL, DUNSE. 

Edinburgh, Aug. 23, 1787. 

" As I gaed up to Dunse, 
To warp a pickle yarn, 
Robin, silly body, 
He gat me wi' bairn." 

From henceforth, my dear sir, I am 
determined to set off with my letters 
like the periodical writers — viz. , pre- 
fix a kind of text, quoted from some 
classic of undoubted authority, such 
as the author of the immortal piece of 
which my text is a part. What I 
have to say on my text is exhausted 
in chatter I wrote you the other day, 
before I had the pleasure of receiving 



* The remaining portion of this letter, con- 
taining the poei's autobiographical sketch, 
,WU1 be found m the Memoir, 



yours from Inverleithing; and sure 
never was anything more lucky, as I 
have but the time to write this, that 
Mr. Nicol on the opposite side of the 
table takes to correct a proof sheet of 
a thesis. They are gabbling Latin so 
loud that I cannot hear what my own 
soul is saying in my own skull, so 
must just give you a matter-of-fact- 
sentence or two, and end, if time per- 
mit, with a verse de rei gcneratione. 

To-morrow I leave Edinburgh In a 
chaise: Nicol thinks it more comfort- 
able than horseback, to which I. say 
Amen; so Jenny Geddes goes home to 
Ayrshire, to use a phrase of my 
mother's, " wi' her finger in her 
mouth." 

Now for a modest verse of classical 
authority : — 

The cats like kitchen, 
The dogs like broo. 
The lasses like the lads weel, 
And the auld wives too. 

CHORUS. 

And we're a' noddin, 
Nid, nid, noddin, 
We're a' noddin fou at 'e'en.* 

If this does not please you, let me 
hear from you : if you write any time 
before the first of September, direct 
to Inverness, to be left at the post- 
oflice till called for; the next week at 
Aberdeen; the next at Edinburgh. 

The sheet is done, and 1 shall just 
conclude with assuring you that I am, 
anU ever with pride shall be, my dear 
sir, yours, &c., 

Robert Burns. 

Call your boy what you think pro- 
per, only interject Burns. What do 
you say to a scripture name; for in- 
stance, Zimri Burns Ainslie, or Ahith- 
ophel, &c. Look your Bible for these 
two heroes — if you do this, I will re- 
pay the compliment. 



No. LXXVI. 
TO MR. ROBERT MUTR 

Stirling, Aug. 26, 1787 
My dear Sir, — I intended to have 
written you from Edinburgh, and now 

* See song commeucing " Gude E'en toyou^ 
Kimmer." 



BURKS^ WORKS. 



write you from Stirling to make an 
excuse. Here am I, on my way to In- 
verness, with a truly original, but 
very worthy man, a Mr. Nicol, one of 
the masters of the High School in 
Edinburgh. I left Auld Reekie yes- 
terday morning, and have passed, be- 
sides by-excursions, Linlithgow, Bor- 
rowstouness, Falkirk, and here am I 
undoubtedly. This morning I knelt 
at the tomb of Sir John the Graham, 
the gallant friend of the immortal 
Wallace; and two hours ago I said a 
fervent prayer for old Caledonia over 
the hole in a blue whinstone, where 
Robert the Bruce fixed his royal stand- 
ard on the banks of Bannockburn; 
and just now, from Stirling Castle, I 
have seen by the setting sun, the glor- 
ious prospect of the windings of Forth 
through the rich carse of Stirling, 
and skirting the equally rich carse o'f 
Falkirk. The crops are very strong, 
but so very late that there is no har- 
vest, except a ridge or tvro perhaps in 
ten miles, all the way I have travelled 
from Edinburgh. 

I left Andrew Bruce* and family all 
well. — I will be at least three weeks 
in making my tour, as I shall return 
by the coast, and have many people to 
call for. 

My best compliments to Charles, our 
dear kinsman and fellow-saint; and 
Messrs. W. and H. Parkers. I hope 
Hughocf is going on and prospering 
witli God and Miss M'Causlin. 

If I could think on anything 
sprightly, I should let you hear every 
other post; but a dull, matter-of-fact 
business like this scrawl, the less and 
seldomer one writes the better. 

Among other matters-of-fact I shall 
add this, that I am and ever shall be, 
my dear sir, your obliged, R. B. 



No. Lxxvn. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

Stirling, Aug. 28, 1787. 
My dear Sm, — Here I am un my 
■way to Inverness. I have rambled 

* An Edinburgh friend. 

t Mr. Hugh Parker, just mentioned. 



over the rich, fertile carses of Falkirk 
and Stirling, and am delighted \y\u\ 
their appearance ; richly waving crops 
of wheat, barley, &c. , but no havvc: •, 
at all yet, except, in one or two places, 
an old- wife's ridge. Yesterday morn 
ing 1 rode from this town up the me- 
andering Devon's banks, to pay my re- 
spects to some Ayrshire folks at Har- 
vieston. After breakfast, we made a 
party to go and see the famous Cau- 
dron Linn, a remarkable cascade in 
the Devon, about five miles above 
Harvieston; and, after spending one 
of the most pleasant days I ever had 
in my life, I returned to Stirling in 
the evening. They are a family, sir, 
though I had not had any prior tie — 
though they had not been the brother 
and sisters of a certain generous friend 
of mine — I would never forget them. 
I am told you have not seen them 
these several years, so you can have 
very little idea of what these young 
folks are now. Your brother is as tall 
as you are, but slender rather than 
otherwise; and I have the satisfaction 
to inform you that he is getting the 
better of those consumptive symptoms 
which I suppose you know were 
threatening him. — His make, and par- 
ticularly his manner, resemble you, 
but he will still have a finer face. (I 
put in the word still to please Mrs. 
Hamilton.) Good sense, modesty, and 
at the same time a just idea of that re- 
spect that man owes to man, and has a 
right in his return to exact, are striking 
features in his character; and, what 
with me is the Alpha and the Omega, 
he has a heart that might adorn the 
breast of a poet ! Grace has a good 
figure, and the look of health and 
cheerfulness, but nothing else remark- 
able in her person. I scarcely ever 
saw so striking a likeness as is be- 
tween you and little Beenie; the 
mouth and chin particularly. She is 
reserved at first; but, as we grew bet- 
ter acquainted, I was delighted with 
the native frankness of her manner, 
and the sterling sense of her observa- 
tion. Of Charlotte I cannot speak in 
common terms of admiration; she is 
, not only beautiful, but lovely. Hei 






GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



883 



form is elegant; her features not reg- 
ular, but they have the smile of sweet- 
ness, and the settled complacency of 
' good-nature in the highest degree; 
and her complexion, now that she has 
happily recovered her wonted health, 
is equal to Miss Burnet's. After the 
exercise of our riding to the Falls, 
Charlotte was exactly Dr. Donne's 
mistress: — 

" Her pure and eloquent blood 
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought 
That one would almost say her body thought." 

Her eyes are fascinating; at once ex- 
pressive of good sense, tenderness, and 
a noble mind.* 

I do not give you all this account, 
my good sir. to Hatter you. I mean 
it to reproach you. Such relations 
the first peer in the realm might own 
with pride; then why do you not keep 
up more correspondence with these so 
amiable young folks ? I had a thou- 
sand questions to answer about you. 
I had to describe the little ones with 
the minuteness of anatomy. They 
were highly delighted when I told 
them that Johnf was so good a boy, 
and so fine a scholar, and that Willia 
was going on still very pretty; but I 
have it in commission to tell her from 
them that beauty is a poor silly bau- 
ble without she be good. Miss Chal- 
mers I had left in Edinburgh, but I 
had the pleasure of meeting with Mrs. 
Chalmers, only Lady Mackenzie being 
rather a little alarmingly ill of a sore 
throat, somewhat marred our enjoy- 
ment. 

I shall not be in Ayrshire for four 
weeks. — My most respectful compli- 
ments to Mrs. Hamilton, Miss Ken- 
nedy, and Doctor Mackenzie. I shall 
probably write him from some stage 
or other. — I am ever, sir, yours most 
gratefully, 

R. B. 



* Miss Charlotte. Hamilton was celebrated 
by Burns in his charming song, " The Banks 
of the Devon." She became the wife of Dr. 
Adair, physician in Harrowgate, and has 
been dead for some years. 

t Son of Mr. Gavin Hamilton— the " wee 



No. LXXVHL 

TO MR. WALKER, BLAIR OF 

ATHOLE.* 

Inverness, Sept. s, 1787. 

My dear Sir, — I have just time to 
write the foregoing, f and to tell you 
that it was (at least most part of it) 
the effusion of a half-hour I spent at 
Bruar. I do not mean it was extem- 
pore, for I have endeavoured to brush 
it up as well as Mr. Nicol's chat and 
the jogging of the chaise would allow. 
It eases my heart a good deal, as 
rhyme is the coin with which a poet 
pays his debts of honour or gratitude. 
What I owe to the noble family of 
Athole, of the first kind, I shall ever 
proudly boast; what I owe of the last, 
so help me God in my hour of need .' 
I shall never forget. 

The " little angel band!" I declare 
I prayed for them very sincerely to- 
day at the Fall of Fyers. I shall 
never forget the fine family-piece I 
saw at Blair; the amiable, the truly 
noble duchess, with her smiling little 
seraph in her lap, at the head of the 
table: the lovely "olive-plants," as 
the Hebrew bard finely says, round 
the happy mother: the beautiful Mrs. 

Gt ; the lovely, sweet Miss C , 

&c. I wish I had the powers of Guido 
to do them justice! My Lord Duke's 
kind hospitality — markedly kind in- 
deed; Mr. Graham of Fintray's 
charms of conversation — Sir W. Mur- 
ray's friendship; in short, the recol- 
lection of all that polite, agreeabJf) 
company raises an honest glow in nr; 
bosom. R. B. 



No. LXXIX. 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Sept. 17, 1787. 
My dear Brother, — I arrived here 
safe yesterday evening, after a tour of 

* Mr. Josiah Walker, at this time tutor in 
the family of the Duke of Athole, afterwards 
Professor of Humanity in the University of 
Glasgow. He was an intimate friend of the 
poet's, and wrote a life of him, and edited an 
edition of his works. 

t '^ The Humble Petition of Bruar Wat«r," 
See p, *o8, i 



S&4 



BURNS' WORKS. 



twenty-two days, and travelling near 
six hundred miles, windings included. 
My furthest stretch was about ten 
miles beyond Inverness. I went 
through the heart of the Highlands by 
Crieff, Tay mouth, the famous seat of 
Lord Breadalbane, down the Tay, 
among cascades and Druidical circles of 
Stones, to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke 
of Athole's; thence across the Tay, 
and up one of his tributary streams to 
Blair of Athole, another of the Duke's 
seats, where I had the honour of 
spending nearly two days with his 
Grace and family; thence many miles 
through a wild country among cliffs 
gray with eternal snows, and gloomy 
uavage glens, till I crossed the Spey 
and went down the stream through 
Strathspey, so famous in Scottish 
music; Badenoch, &c., till I reached 
Grant Castle, where I spent half a day 
with Sir James Grant and family; and 
then crossed the country for Fort 
George, but called by the way at Caw- 
dor, the ancient seat of Macbeth; 
there I saw the identical bed in which 
tradition says King Duncan was mur- 
dered: lastly, from Fort George to In- 
verness. 

I returned by the coast, through 
Nairn, Forres, and so on, to Aberdeen, 
thence to Stonehive,* where James 
Burness, from Montrose, met me by 
appointment. I spent two days among 
our relations, and found our aunts 
Jean and Isabel still alive, and hale 
old women. John Cairn, though born 
the same year with our father, walks 
as vigourously as I can — they have 
Lad several letters from his son in 
jNew York. William Brand is like- 
jwise a stout old fellow; but further 
particulars I delay till I see you, 
which will be in two or three weeks. 
The rest of my stages are not worth 
rehearsing: warm as I was from Os- 
sian's country, where I had seen his 
very grave, what cared I for fishing- 
towns or fertile carses ? I slept at the 
famous Brodie of Brodie's one night, 
and dined at Gordon Castle next day, 
with the duke, duchess, and family. 



I am thinking to cause my old mare to^ 
meet me, by means of John Ronald, I 
at Glasgow; but you shall hear fur- ' 
ther from me before I leave Edin- 
burgh. My duty and many compli- 
ments from the north to my mother; 
and my brotherly compliments to the 
rest. I have been trying for a berth 
for William, but am not likely to be 
successful. Farewell. 

R. B. 



No. LXXX. 
TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS, 

AFTERWARDS MRS. LEWIS HAY, OP 



♦ Stoneharen. 



EDINBURGH. 

Sept. 26, 1787. 

I SEND Charlotte the first number of 
the songs; I would not wait for the 
second number; I hate delays in little 
marks of friendship as I hate dissim- 
ulation in the language of the heart. 
I am determined to pay Charlotte a 
poetic compliment, if I could hit on 
some glorious old Scotch air, in the 
second number.* You will see a 
small attempt on a shred of paper in 
the book; but although Dr. Blacklock 
commended it very highly, I am not 
just satisfied with it myself. I intend . 
to make it a description of some kind: 
the whining cant of love, except in 
real passion, and by a masterly hand, 
is to me as insufferable as the preach- 
ing cant of old Father Smeaton, Whig 
minister at Kilmaurs. Darts, flames, 
Cupids, loves, graces, and all that far- 
rago, are just a Mauchline a sense- . 

less rabble. i 

I got an excellent poetic epistle yes- 
ternight from the old, venerable author 
of " Tullochgorum," "John of Baden- 
yon," &c.f I suppose you know he is 
a clergyman. It is by far the finest 
poetic compliment I ever got. I will 
send you a copy of it. 

I go on Thursday or Friday to Dum- 
fries, to wait on Mr. Miller about his 

* Of the Sco^s Musical Museum. 
t The Rev. John Skinner, Episcopal mioisi 
tcr at Longslde, near Peterhead. , 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



385 



farms. — Do tell tliat to Lady Mack- 
enzie, that she may give me credit for 
a little wisdom. " I, Wisdom, dwell 
■with Prudence." What a blessed fire- 
side ! — How happy should I be to pass 
a winter evening under their venerable 
roof ! and smoke a pipe of tobacco, 
or drink water-gruel with them ! 
What solemn, lengthened, laughter- 
quashing gravity of phiz ! What sage 
remarks on the good-for-nothing sons 
and daughters of indiscretion and 
folly ! And what frugal lessons, as 
we straitened the fireside circle, on the 
uses of the poker and tongs ! 

Miss N is very well, and. begs 

to be remembered in the old way to 
you. I used all my eloquence, all the 

Eersuasive flourishes of the hand, and 
eart-melting modulation of periods 
in my power, to urge her out of Har- 
viestou, but all in vain. My rhetoric 
seems quite to have lost its effect on 
the lovely half of mankind — 1 have 
seen the day — but that is a " tale of 
other years." — In my conscience I be- 
lieve that my heart has been so oft on 
fire that it is absolutely vitrified. I 
look on the sex with something like 
the admiration with which I regard 
the starry sky in a frosty December 
night. I admire the beauty of the 
Creator's workmanship; I am charmed 
with the wild but graceful eccentricity 
of their motions, and — wish them 
good night. I mean this with respect 
to a certain passion dont fai eu llion- 
neur d'etre un miser abie esclave: as 
for friendship, you and Charlotte have 
given me pleasure, permanent pleasure, 
•'which the world cannot give, nor 
take away," I hope; and which will 
outlast the heavens and the earth. 

R. B. 



No. LXXXI. 
TO THE SAME. 

Without date. 

I HATE been at Dumfries, and at one 

visit more shall be decided about a 

farm in that country. I am rather 

hQpele§!3 in it; but as my brother is an 



excellent farmer, and is, besides an ex- 
ceedingly prudent, sober man, (quali- 
ties which are only a younger brother's 
fortune in our family,) I am determined 
if my Dumfries business fail me, to 
return into partnership with him, and 
at our leisure take another farm in the 
neighbourhood. 

1 assure you I look for high compli- 
ments from you and Charlotte on this 
very sage instance of my unfathom- 
able, incomprehensible wisdom. Talk- 
ing of Charlotte, I must tell her that I 
have, to the best of my power, paid hei 
a poetic compliment, now completed. 
The air is admirable: true old High- 
land. It was the tune of a Gaelic song, 
which an Inverness lady sang me 
when I was there; and I was so 
cli armed with it that I begged her to 
write me a set of it from her singing; 
for it had never been set before. I am 
fixed that it shall go in Johnson's next 
number; so Charlotte and you need 
not spend your precious time in con- 
tradicting me. I won't say the poetry 
is first-rate; though I am convinced it 
is very well; and, what is not always 
the case with compliments to ladies, it 
is not only sincere but just. 

[Here follows the song of " The 
Banks of the Devon." See p. 307.1 

R. B. 



No. LXXXII. 

TO JAMES HOY. ESQ., GORDON 
CASTLE. 
Edinburgh, Oct. 20, 1787. 
Sm, — I will defend my conduct in 
giving you this trouble, on the best of 
Christian principle — " Whatsoever ye 
would that men should do unto you, 
do ye even so unto them." I shall 
certainly, among my legacies, leave 
my latest curse on that unlucky pre- 
dicament which hurried— tore me away 
from Castle Gordon. May that obsti- 
nate son of Latin prose [Nicol] be curs^ 
to Scotch-mile periods, and damned to 
seyea-league paragraphs; while decleiv 



BtTENS' WOEKS. 



-i 



sion and conjugation, gender, number 
and time, under the ragged banners of 
dissonance and disarrangement, eter- 
nally rank against him in hostile array. 

Allow me, sir, to strengthen the 
small claim I have to your acquaint- 
ance, by the following request. An 
engraver, James Johnson, in Edin- 
burgh, has, not from mercenary views, 
but from an honest Scotch enthusiasm, 
set about collecting all our native 
songs and setting them to music; par- 
ticularly those that have never been 
set before, Clarke, the well-known 
musician, presides over the musical 
arrangement, and Drs. Beattie and 
Blacklock, Mr, Tytler of Woodhouse- 
lee, and your humble servant to the 
utmost of his small power, assist in 
collecting the old poetry, or sometimes 
for a fine air make a stanza, when it 
has no words. The brats, too tedious 
to mention, claim a parental pang 
from my hardship. I suppose it will 
appear in Johnson's second number — 
the first was published before my ac- 
quaintance with him. My request is 
— " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen" is one in- 
tended for this number, and I beg a 
copy of his Grace of Gordon's words to 
it, which you were so kind as to repeat 
to me. You may be sure we won't 
prefix the author's name, except you 
like, though I look on it as no small 
merit to this work that the names of 
many of the authors of our old Scotch 
songs, names almost forgotten, will 
be inserted. I do not well know where 
to write to you — I rather write at you ; 
but if you will be so obliging, immedi- 
ately on receipt of this, as to write me 
a few lines, I shall perhaps pay you in 
kind, though not in quality, John- 
son's terms are: — Each number, a 
handsome pocket volume, to consist at 
least of a hundred Scotch songs, with 
basses for the harpsichord, &c. The 
price to subscribers, 5s; to non-sub- 
scribers, 6s. He will have three num- 
bers, I conjecture. 

My direction for two or three weeks 
will be at Mr. William Cruikshank's, 
St, James' Square, New Town, Edin- 
burgh. I am, sir, yours to command, 

R B, 



No. LXXXIII. ^^ 

TO REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

Edinburgh, Oct. 25 1787- 

Reverend and Venerable Sir,-^ 
Accept in plain dull prose, my most 
sincere thanks for the best poetical ^ 
compliment I ever received, 1 assure 
you, sir, as a poet, you have conjured 
up an airy demon of vanity in my. 
fancy, which the best abilities in your' 
other capacity would be ill able to lay. 
I regret, and while I live I shall regret, 
that, when I was in the north, I had 
not the pleasure of paying a younger 
brother's dutiful respect to the author 
of the best Scotch song ever Scotland 
saw — " Tullochgorum's my delight !'* 
The world may think slightingly of the 
craft of song-making, if they please, 
but, as Job says — "Oh that mine ad- 
versary had written a book ! " — let 
them try. There is a certain some- 
thing in the old Scotch songs, a wild 
happiness of thought and expression, 
which peculiarly marks them, not only 
from English songs, but also from the 
modern efforts of song-wrights, in our 
native manner and language. The only 
remains of this enchantment, these 
spells of the imagination, rest with 
3^ou, Our true brother, Ross of Loch- 
lea, was likewise ' ' owre cannie " — a 
"wild warlock" — but now he sings 
among the ' ' sons of the morning. " 

I have often wished, and will cer- 
tainly endeavour, to form a kind of 
common acquaintance among all the 
genuine sons of Caledonian song. The 
world, busy in low prosaic pursuits, 
may overlook most of us; but "rever- 
ence thyself," The world is not our 
peers, so we challenge the jury. We 
can lash that world, and find ourselves 
a very great source "of amusement and 
happiness independent of that world. 

There is a work going on in Edin- 
burgh, just now, which claims your 
best assistance. An engraver in this 
town has set about collecting and 
publishing all the Scotch songs, vrith 
the music, that can be found. Songs 
in the English language, if by Scotch- 
men, are admitted, but the music must 
all be Scotch, Drs, Beattie and Black* 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



887 



lock are lending a hand, and tlie fitst 
musician in town presides over that 
department. I have been absolutely 
crazed about it, collecting old stanzas, 
and every information remaining re- 
specting their origin, authors, &c. , &,c. 
This last is but a very fragment 
, business; but at the end of his second 
number — the first is already published 
— a small account will be given of the 
authors, particularly to preserve those 
of latter times. Your three songs, 
" Tullochgorum," "John of Baden- 
yon," and " The Ewie wi' the Crookit 
Horn," go in this second number. I 
was determined, before I got your let- 
ter, to write you, begging that you 
would let me know where the editions 
of these pieces may be found, as you 
would wish them to continue in future 
times, and if you would be so kind to 
this undertaking as send any songs, of 
your own or others, that you would 
think proper to publish, your name 
will be inserted among the other 
authors, — " Nill ye, will ye." One 
half of Scotland already give your 
songs to other authors. Paper is done. 
I beg to hear from you ; the sooner the 
better, as I leave Edinburgh in a fort- 
night or three weeks. I am, with the 
warmest sincerity, sir, your obliged 
humble servant, 

R. B. 



No. LXXXIV. 

I TO JiJMES HOY, ESQ., GORDON 
CASTLE. 

Edinburgh, Nov. 6, 1787. 

Dear Sir, — I would have wrote you 
immediately on receipt of your kind 
letter, but a mixed impulse of grati- 
tude and esteem whispered to me that 
I ought to send you something by way 
of return. When a poet owes any- 
thing, particularly when he is indebted 
for good oflSces, the payment that 
usually recurs to him — the only coin 
indeed in which he is probably con- 



versant — is rhyme. Johnson scndd 
the books by the fly, as directed, and 
begs me to enclose his most grateful 
thanks: my return I intended should 
have been one or two poetic bagatelles 
which the world have not seen, or, 
perhaps for obvious reasons, cannot 
see. These I shall send you before I 
leave Edinburgli. They may make, 
you laugh a little, which, on the whole,' 
is no bad way of spending one's pre- 
cious hours and still more precious 
breath: at anyrate, they will be, 
though a small, yet a very sincere 
mark of my respectful esteem for a 
gentleman whose further acquaintance 
1 should look upon as a peculiar obli- 
gation. 

The duke's song, independent totally 
of his dukeship, charms me. There is 
I know not what of wild happiness of 
thought and expression peculiarly 
beautiful in the old Scottish song 
style, of which his Grace, old vener- 
able Skinner, the author of " Tulloch- 
gorum," &c., and the late Ross, of 
Lochlea, of true Scottish poetic mem- 
ory, are the only modern instances 
that I recollect, since Ramsay with his 
contemporaries, and poor Bob Fergus- 
son went to the wold of deathless exis- 
tence and truly immortal song. The 
mob of mankind, that many-headed 
beast, would laugh at so serious a 
speech about an old song; but, as Job 
says, " Oh that mine adversary had 
written a book !" Those who think 
that composing a Scotch song is a 
triHing business — let them try. 

I wish my Lord Duke would pay a 
proper attention to the Christian ad- 
monition — " Hide not your candle 
under a bushel," but, "Let your light 
shine before men." I could name 
half a dozen dukes that I guess are 
a devilish deal worse employed; nay, 
I question if there are half a dozen 
better: perhaps there are not half that 
scanty number whom " Heaven has 
favoured with the tuneful, happy, 
and, I will say, glorious gift. — I am, 
dear sir, your obliged humble servant. 



388 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. LXXXV. 

TO MISS M 



-N. 



Saturday Noon, No. 2 St. James' Square, | 
New Town, Edinburgh, Nov. 1787. . ) 

Here have I sat, my dear madam, 
in the stony altitude of perplexed 
study for fifteen vexatious minutes, 
my head askew, bending over the 
intended card; my fixed eye insensible 
to the very light of day poured around; 
my pendulous goose-feather, loaded 
•with ink, hanging over the future 
letter, all for the important purpose 
of writing a complimentary card to 
accompany your trinket. 

Compliment is such a miserable 
Greenland expression, lies at such 
a chilly polar distance from the torrid 
zone of my constitution that I cannot, 
for the very soul of me, use it to any 
person for whom I have the twentieth 
part of the esteem every one mast 
have for you who knows you. 

As I leave town in three or four 
days, I can give myself the pleasure 
of calling on you only for a minute. 
Tuesday evening, some time about 
seven or after, 1 shall wait on you for 
your farewell commands. 

The hinge of your box I put into 
the hands of the proper connoisseur; 
but it is, like Willy Gaw's Skate, 
past redemption. The broken glass 
likewise went under review; but 
deliberative wisdom thought it would 
too much endanger the whole fabric. — 
lam, dear madam,- with all the sin- 
cerity of enthusiasm, your very 
obedient servant, 

R. B. 



♦ Inquiries concerning the name of this lady 
have been made in vain. The communication 
appeared, for the first time, in Burns' Letters 
to Clarinda. The import of those celebrated 
letters has been much misrepresented : they 
are sentimental flirtations chiefly — a sort of 
Corydon-and-Phylis affair, with here and 
there passages over-warm, and expressions 
too graphic, such as all had to endure who 
were honoured with the correspondence of 
Sums. — Cunningham. 



No. LXXXVI. 
TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, Nov. 21, 1787. 
I HAVE one vexatious fault to the' 
kindly welcome, well-filled sheet 
which I owe to your and Charlotte's* 
goodness — it contains too much sense, 
sentiment, and good spelling. It is 
impossible that even you two, whom i 
declare to iny God I will give credit 
for any degree of excellence the sex 
are capable of attaining, it is impossi 
ble you can go on to correspond at that 
rate; so, like those who, Shenstone 
says, retire because they have made a 
good speech, I shall, after a few 
letters, hear no more of you. I insist 
that you shall write whatever comes 
first: what you see, what you read, 
what you hear, what you admire, 
what you dislike, trifles, bagatelles, 
nonsense; or to fill up a corner, e'en 
put down a laugh at full length. 
Now none of your polite hints about 
flattery: I leave that to your lovers, if 
you have or shall have any; though, 
"thank Heaven, I have found at last 
two girls who can be luxuriantly 
happy in their own minds and with 
one another, without that commonly 
necessary appendage to female bliss — - 

A LOVER. 

Charlotte and you are just two 
favourite resting places for my soul 
in her wanderings through the weary, 
thorny wilderness of this world. God 
knows I am ill fitted for the struggle: 
I glory in being a poet, and I want to 
be thought a wise man — I would 
fondly be generous, and I wish to be 
rich. After all, I am afraid I am a 
lost subject. " Some folk hae ^ 
hantle o' fauts, an' I'm but a ne'er-do- 
weel." 

Afternoon — To close the melancholy 
reflections at the end of last sheet, 1 
sliall just add a piece of devotion com- 

^ f 

* Miss Hamilton, 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



389 



monly known in Carrick by the title 
of the ''^Wabster's grace:" — 

*' Some say we're thieves, and e'en say are 
we ; 
Some say we lie, and e'en say do we ! 
Gude forgie us, and I bope sae will He ! 
Up and to your looms, lads." 

R. B. 



No. LXXXVII. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE, 

EDINBURGH. 

Edinburgh, Sunday Morning, J 
Nov. 23, 1787. j 

I BEG, my dear sir, you would not 
make any appointment to take us to 
Mr. Ainslie's to-night. On looldng 
over my engagements, constitution, 
present state of health, some little 
vexatious soul concerns, &c., I find I 
can't sup abroad to-night. 1 shall be 
in to-day till one o'clock if you have a 
leisure hour. 

You will think it romantic when I 
tell you that I find the idea of your 
friendship almost necessary to my ex- 
istence. — You assume a proper length 
of face in my bitter hours of blue- 
devilism, and you laugh fully up to 
my highest wishes at my good things. 
— I don't know, upon the whole, if 
you are one of the first fellows in 
God's world, but you are so ♦o me. I 
tell you this just now in th'^ convic- 
tion that some inequalities in my 
temper and manner may perhaps 
sometimes make you suspect that I am 
I not so warmly as 1 ought to be your 
friend. 

R. B. 



No. LXXXVIII. 

TO ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Mauchune, 1787. 

My dear Ainslie, — There is one 
thing for which I set great store by 
you as a friend, and it is this: I have 
not a friend upon earth, besides your- 
self, to whom I can talk nonsense 
without forfeiting some degree of 



esteem. Now, to one like me, who 
never weighs what he says, such a 
friend is a valuable treasure. I was 
never a knave, but I have been a fool 
all my life, and in spite of all my en- 
deavours, I see now plainly that I 
shall never be wise. Now it rejoices 
my heart to have met with such a fel- 
low as you, who, though you are not 
just such a hopeless fool as I, yet I 
trust you will never listen so much to 
the temptation of the devil, as to grow 
so very wise that you will in the least 
disrespect an honest fellow, because 
he is a fool. In short, I have set you 
down as the staff of my old age, when 
the whole host of my friends will, 
after a decent show of pity, have for- 
got me. 

" Though in the morn comes sturt and strife, 
Yet joy may come ere n'oon ; 
And I hope to live a merry, merry life, 
When a' their days are done." 

Write me soon, were it but a few 
lines, just to tell me how that good 
sagacious man your father is — that 
kind dainty body your mother — that 
strapping chiel your brother Douglas 
— and my friend Rachel, who is as far 
before Rachel of old as she was before 
her blear-eyed sister Leah. 

R. B. 



No. LXXXIX. 

TO JAMES DALRYMPLE, ESQ., 

ORANGEFIELD. 

Edinburgh, 1787. 

Dear Sir, — I suppose the devil is 
so elated with his success with you 
that he is determined by a coup de 
main to complete his purpose on you 
all at once, in making you a poet. I 
broke open the letter you sent me; 
hummed over the rhymes; and, as I 
saw they were extempore, said to my- 
self they were very well ; but when I saw 
at the bottom a name that I shall ever 
value with grateful respect, " I gapit 
wide, but naething spak." I was 
nearly as much struck as the friends 
of Job, of affliction- bearing memory, 
when they sat down with Mm seveu 



390 



BTTRNS' WORKS'. 



days and seven nights, and spake not 
a word. 

I am naturally of a superstitious 
cast, and as soon as my wonder- 
scared imagination regained its con- 
sciousness, and resumed its functions, 
I cast about what this mania of yours 
might portend. My foreboding ideas 
had the wide stretch of possibility; 
and several events, great in their mag- 
nitude, and important in their conse- 
quences, occurred to my fancy. The 
downfall of the conclave, or the 
crushing of the Cork rumps; a ducal 
coronet to Lord George Gordon, and 
the Protestant interest; or St. Peter's 
keys, to . 

You want to know how I come on. 
I am just in statu quo, or, not to insult 
a gentleman with my Latin, in ' ' auld 
use and wont.". The noble Earl of 
Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, 
and interested himself in my concerns, 
with a goodness like that benevolent 
Being whose image he so richly bears. 
He is a stronger proof of the immor- 
tality of the soul than any that philos- 
ophy ever produced. A mind like 
his can never die. Let the worship- 
ful squire H, L. or the reverend Mass 
J, M. go into his primitive nothing. 
At best, they are but ill -digested 
lumps of chaos, only one of them 
strongly tinged with i3ituminous par- 
ticles and sulphureous effluvia. But 
my noble patron, eternal as the heroic 
swell of magnanimity, and the gen- 
erous throb of benevolence, shall look 
on with princely eye at "the war of 
elements, the wreck of matter, and 
the crash of worlds." 

R. B. 



No. XC. 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. 

My Lord, — I know your lordship 
will disapprove of my ideas in a re- 
quest I am going to make to you ; but I 
have weighed, long and seriously 
weighed, my situation, my hopes and 



turn of mind, and am fully fixed to 
my scheme if I can possibljf efEec- 
tuate it. I wish to get into the Excise; 
I am told that your lordship's interest 
will easily procure me the grant from 
the commissioners; and your lord- 
ship's patronage and goodness, which 
have already rescued me from obscur- 
ity, wretchedness, and exile, em- 
bolden me to ask that interest. You 
have likewise put it in my power to 
save the little tie of home that 
sheltered an aged mother, two 
brothers, and three sisters from de- 
struction. There, my lord, you have 
bound me over to the highest grati- 
tude. 

My brother's farm is but a wretched 
lease, but I think he will probably 
weather out the remaining seven years 
of it; and, after the assistance which I 
have given and will give him. to keep 
the family together, 1 think, by my 
guess, I shall have rather better than 
two hundred pounds, and instead of 
seeking, what is almost impossible at 
present to find, a farm that I can cer- 
tainly live by, with so small a stock, 
I shall lodge this sum in a banking- 
house, a sacred deposit, excepting only 
the calls of uncommon distress or 
necessitous old age. 

These, my lord, are my views: I 
have resolved from the maturest de- 
liberation; and now I am fixed, I shall 
leave no stone unturned to carry my 
resolve into execution. Your lord- 
ship's patronage is the strength of my 
hopes; nor have I yet applied to any- 
body else. Indeed my heart sinks 
within me at the idea of applying to 
any other of the great who have hon- 
oured me with their countenance. I 
am ill qualified to dog the heels of 
greatness with the impertinence of 
solicitation, and tremble nearly as much 
at the thought of the cold promise as 
the cold denial; but to your lordship, 
I have not only the honour, the com- 
fort, but tiie pleasure of being youi 
lordship's much-obliged and deeply- 
indebted humble servant, 

R. B. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



391 



No. XCI. 
TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. 

I AM here under the care of a sur- 
geon, with a bruised limb extended on 
a cushion; and the tints of my mind 
vying with the livid horror preceding 
a midnight thunder-storm. A drunken 
coachman was the cause of the first, 
and incomparably the lightest evil; 
misfortune, bodily constitution, hell, 
and myself, have formed a "quadruple 
alliance" to guarantee the other. I 
got my fall on Saturday, and am get- 
ting slowly better. 

I have taken tooth and nail to the 
Bible, and am got through the five 
books of Moses and half way in Joshua. 
It is really a glorious book. I sent for 
my bookbinder to-day, and ordered 
him to get me an octavo Bible in 
sheets, the best paper and print in 
town, and bind it with all the elegance 
of his craft. 

I would give my best song to my 
worst enemy, I mean the merit of mak- 
ing it, to have you and Charlotte by 
me. You are angelic creatures, and 
would pour oil and wine into my 
wounded spirit. 

I enclose you a proof copy of the 
" Banks of the Devon," which present 
with my best wishes to Charlotte, The 
" Ochil Hills"* you shall probably 
have next week for yourself. None of 
your fine speeches 1 

R. B. 



No. XCII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 19, 1787. 

I BEGIN this letter in answer tc yours 
of the 17th curt., which is not yet cold 
since 1 read it. The atmosphere of my 
soul is vastly clearer than when I 
wrote you last. For the first time yes- 
terday I crossed the room on crutclies. 



* The song in honour of Miss Chalmers, be- 
ginning, ''Where, braving angry winter's 
Storms," 3ee p. 207. 



It would do your heart good to see my 
hardship, not on my poetic, but on my 
oaken, stilts; throwing my best leg 
with an air, and with as much hilarity 
in ray gait and countenance as a May 
frog leaping across tlie newly-har- 
rowed ridge, enjoying the fragrance of 
the refreshed earth after the long-ex 
pected shower ! 

I can't say I am altogether at mv 
ease when I see anywhere in my patii 
that meagre, squalid, famine-faced 
spectre, poverty: attended, as he al- 
ways is by iron-fisted oppression, and 
leering contempt; but I have sturdily 
withstood his buffetings many a hard- 
laboured day already, and still my 
motto is — I DARE ! My worst enemy 
is moi-meme. I lie so miserably open 
to the inroads and incursions of a mi;-; 
chievous, light-armed, well -mounted 
banditti, under the banners of imagi- 
nation, whim, caprice, and passion; 
and the»heavy-armed veteran regular.; 
of wisdom, prudence, and forethought 
move so very, very slow, that I am al 
most in a state of perpetual warfare, 
and, alas ! frequent defeat. There are 
just two creatures I would envy, a 
iiorse in his wild state, traversing the 
forests of Asia, or an oyster on some 
of the desert shores of Europe. The 
one has not a wish without enjoyment, 
the other has neither wish nor fear. 

R.B. 



No. XCHL 

TO CHARLES HAY, ESQ., 
ADVOCATE,* 

ENCLOSING VERSES ON THE DEATH OF 
THE LORD PRESIDENT, f 

Dec. 1787. 

Sir, — The enclosed poem was writ- 
ten in consequence of your suggestion 
the last time I had the pleasure of see 
ing you. It cost me an hour or two of 
next mornmg's sleep, but did not 



* Ultimately, a judge, under the desigaatioii 
of Lord Newton. 

t Sec the lines, p. 11%, 



509 



BURNS' WORKS. 



please me; so it lay by, an ill-digested 
< ffort, till the other day that I gave it 
a critic brush. 

These kind of subjects are much 
liackneyed; and, besides, the wailing 
of the rhyming tribe over the ashes of 
the great are cursedly suspicious, and 
out of all character, for sincerity. 
These ideas damped my muse's fire; 
however, I have done the best I could, 
and at all events it gives me an oppor- 
tunity of declaring that I have the hon- 
our to be, sir, your obliged humble ser- 
vant, a. B. 



No. XCIV. 
TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. 

SiK, — Mr. ^<Iackenzie, in INSauchline, 
my very warm and worthy friend, has 
informed me how much you are pleased 
to interest yourself in my fate as a 
man, and (what to me is incomparably 
dearer) my fame as a poet. I liE^e, 
sir, in one or two instances, been 
patronised by those of your character 
in life, when I was introduced to their 
notice by ... . friends to them, 
and honoured acquaintances to me ; but 
you are the first gentleman in the 
country whose benevolence and good- 
ness of heart has interested himself 
for me, unsolicited and unknown. 

I am not master enough of the eti- 
quette of these matters to know, nor 
did I stay to inquire, whether formal 
duty bade, or cold propriety disallow- 
ed, my thanking you in this manner, 
as I am convinced, from the light 
in which you kindly view me, that you 
will do me the justice to believe this 
letter is not the manoeuvre of the 
needy, sharping author, fastening on 
those in upper life who honour him 
wHl^ a little notice of him or his works. 



Indeed, the situation of poets is gener- 
ally such, to a proverb, as may in some 
measure palliate that prostitution of 
heart and talents they have at times 
been guilty of. I do not think prodi- 
gality is by any means a necessary con- 
comitant of a poetic turn, but I believe 
a careless, indolent attention to econ- 
omy is almost inseparable from it; 
then there must be, in the heart of 
every bard of nature's making, a cer- 
tain modest sensibility, mixed with a 
kind of pride, that will ever keep him 
out of the way of those windfalls of 
fortune which frequently light on 
hardy impudence and foot-licking ser- 
vility. It is not easy to imagine a 
more helpless state than his whose 
poetic fancy unfits him for the world, 
and whose character as a scholar gives 
him some pretensions to the politesse 
of life, yet is as poor as I am. 

For my part. I thank Heaven my 
star has been kinder; learning never 
elevated my ideas above the peasant's 
shed, and I have an independent for- 
tune at the plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one 
who pretended in the least to the man- 
ners of the gentleman should be so 
foolish, or worse, as to stoop to traduce 
the morals of such a one as I am, and so 
inhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle with 
that late most unfortunate, unhappy 
part of my story. With a tear of grati- 
tude, I thank you, sir, for the warmth 
with which you interposed in behalf of 
my conduct. I am, 1 acknowledge, too 
frequently the sport of whim, caprice, 
and passion; but reverence to God, 
and integrity to my fellow-creatures, 
I hope I shall ever preserve. I have 
no return, sir, to make you for your 
goodness but one — a return which, I 
am persuaded, will not be unaccept- 
able — the honest, warm wislies of a 
grateful heart for your happiness, and 
every one of that lovely flock, who 
stand to you in filial relation. If ever 
calumny aim the poisoned shaft at 
them, may friendship be by to ward 
the blow I 



GENERAL CORHESPONDENCE. 



303 



No. XCV, 
TO MISS WILLIAMS,* 

ON READING THE POEM OF "THE 
SLAVE-TRADE." 

Edinburgh, Dec, 1787. 

I KNOW very little of scientific criti- 
cism, so all I can pretend to in that in- 
tricate art is merely to note, as 1 read 
along, what passages strike me as be- 
ing uncommonly beautiful, and where 
the expression seems to be perplexed 
or faulty. 

The poem opens finely. There are 
none of these idle prefatory lines which 
one may skip over before one comes to 
the subject. Verses 9 and 10 in par- 
ticular, 

" Where ocean's unseen bound 
Leaves a drear world of waters round," 

are truly beautiful. The simile of the 
hurricane is likewise fine; and, indeed, 
beautiful as tne poem is, almost all 
the similes rise decidedly above it. 
From verse 31 to verse 50 is a pretty 
eulogy on Britain. Verse 36, " That 
foul drama deep with wrong," is nobly 
expressive. Verse 46, I am afraid, is 
rather unworthy of the rest; " to dare 
to feel" is an idea that I do not alto- 
gether like. The contrast of valour 
and mercy, from the 46th verse to the 
50th, is admirable. 

Either my apprehension is dull, or 
there is somethijig a little confused in 
the apostrophe to Mr, Pitt. Verse 55 
is the antecedent to verses 57 and 58, 
but in verse 58 the connexion seems 
ungrammatical : — 



Powers 



With no gradations mark'd Iheir flight. 
But rose at once to glory's height. 

Risen should be the word instead of 
rose. Try it in prose. Powers, — 
their flight marked by no g-radations, 
but [the same powers] risen at once to 

* Miss Williams had in the previous June 
addressed a complimentary epistle to Burns, 
which appeared in the Eduiburgh Ma^azi/w 
for Sept. 1817. That she was a lady of some 
merit will appear from the fact that one of her 
songs, " Evan Banks," had the honour to be 
imputed to Burns himself. 



the height of glory. Likewise, verse 
53, "For this,'' is evidently meant ta 
lead on the sense of verses 59, 60, 61, 
and 62; but let us try how the thread 
of connexion runs: — 



For this 



The deeds of mercy, that embrace 
A distant sphere, an alien race. 
Shall virtue's lips record, and claim 
The fairest honours of thy name." 

I beg pardon if I misapprehend the 
matter, but this appears to me the only 
imperfect passage in the poeni. The 
comparision of the sunbeam is fine. 

The compliment to the Duke of Rich- 
mond is, I hope, as just as it is cer- 
tainly elegant. The thought, 

"Virtue 

Sends from her unsullied source 

The gems of thought their purest force," 

is exceedingly beautiful. The idea, 
from verse 81 to 85, that the " blest 
degree" is like the beams of morning 
ushering in the glorious day of liberty, 
ought not to pass unnoticed or unap- 
plauded. From verse 85 to verse 108, 
is an animated contrast between the 
unfeeling selfishness of the oppressor 
on the one hand, and the misery of the 
captive on the other. Verse 88 might 
perhaps be amended thus: " Nor evei 
gi«Y her narrow maze." We are said 
to pass a bound, but we quit a maze. 
Verse 100 is exquisitely beautiful: — 

" They whom wasted blessings tire." 
Verse 110 is, I doubt a clashing of 
metaphors ; " to load a span " is, I am 
afraid, an unwarrantable expression. 
In verse 114, " Cast the universe in 
shade," is a fine idea. From the 115tli 
verse to the 142d is a striking descrip- 
tion of the wrongs of the poor African. 
Verse 120, "The load of unremitted 
pain," is a remarkable, strong expres- 
sion. The address to the advocates 
for abolishing the slave-trade, from 
verse 143 to verse 208, is animated 
with the true life of genius. The pic- 
ture of oppression — 

" While she links her impious chain. 
And calculates the price of pain ; 
Weighs agony in sordid scales, 
And marks if death or life prevails"— 

is nobly executed. 



fM 



mrtr^TS' "STOP.KS. 



What a tender idea is in verse 180 ! 
Indeed, that whole description of home I 
may vie witli Thomson's description I 
of home, somewhere in the beginning 
of his " Autumn." I do not remember 
to have seen a stronger expression of 
misery than is contained in these 
V'erses: — 

" Condemn'd, severe extreme, to live 
When all is fled that life can give." 

Tiie comparison of our distant joys to 
distant objects is equally original and 
striking. 

The character and manners of the 
dealer in the infernal traffic is a well 
done, though a horrid, picture, I am 
not sure how far introducing the sailor 
was right; for, though the sailor's 
common characteristic is generosity, 
yet, in this case, he is certainly not 
only an unconcerned witness, but, in 
some degree, an efficient agent in the 
business. Verse 234 is a nervous 

. . . expressive — ' ' The heart con- 
vulsive anguish breaks." The descrip- 
tion of the captive wretch when he ar- 
rives in the West Indies is carried on 
with equal spirit. The thought that 
the oppressor's sorrow on seeing the 
slave pine is like the butcher's regret 
when his destined lamb dies a natural 
death is exceeding fine. 

I am got so miwh into the cant of 
criticism that I begin to be afraid lest 
I have nothing except the cant of it; 
and, instead of elucidating my author, 
am only benighting myself. For this 
reason I will not pretend to go through 
the whole poem. Some few remaining 
beautiful lines, however, I cannot pass 
,-)ver. Verse 280 is the strongest de- 
scription of selfishness I ever saw. The 
com])arisoa in verses 285 and 286 is 
new and fine; and tlie line, "Your 
arms to penury you lend," is excellent. 

In verse 3i7, "like" should cer- 
tainly be " as" or "so;" for instance — 

" His sway the harden'd bosom leads 
To cruelty's remorseless deeds ; [sprinofs 
As (or, so) the blue ligrhtning, when it 
With fury on its livid winsrs. 
Darts on the goal with rapid force, 
Nor heeds that ruin marks its course." 

If you insert the word "like" where 
I have placed "as," you must alter 



" darts" to " darting," and "heeds" to 
" heeding," in order to make it gram- 
mar. A tempest is a favourite subject 
with the poets, but I do not remember 
anything even in Thomson's "Winter" 
superior to your verses from the 347th 
to the 351st. Indeed, the last simile, 
beginning with " Fancy may dress, 
&c.," and ending with the 350th verse, 
is, in my opinion, the most beautiful 
passage in the poem; it would do hon- 
our to the greatest names that evei 
graced our profession. 

I will not beg your pardon, madam, 
for these strictures, as my conscience 
tells me that for once in my life I have 
acted up to the duties of a Christian, 
in doing as I would be done by. 

R. B 



TO MR. 



No. XCVI. 

RICHARD 
IRVINE.^ 



BRO 



Edinburgh, Dec, 30, 1787. 

My dear Sir, — I have met with 
few things in life which have given 
me more pleasure than Fortune's kind- 
ness to you since those days in which 
we met in the vale of misery; as I can 
honestly say that I never knew a man 
who more truly deserved it, or to 
whom my heart more truly wished it. 
I have been much indebted since that 
time to your story and sentiments for 
steeling my mind against evils, of 
which I have had a pretty decent share. 
My will-o'-wisp fate you know. Do 
you recollect a Sunday we spent to- 
gether in Eglinton woods ? You told 
me, on my repeating some verses to 
you, that you wondered I could resist 
the temptation of sending verses of 
such merit to a magazine. It was 
from this remark I derived that idea of 
my own pieces which encouraged me 
to'endeavour at the character of a poet. 
I am happy to hear that you will be 

* Richard Brown was the individual whom 
Burns, in his autobiographical letter to Dr. 
Moore, describes as his companion at Irvine 
—whose mind was fraught with every manly 
virtue, but who, nevertheless, was the meant 
of making him regard illicit love witb levity« 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



393 



two or three months at home. As soon 
as a bruised limb will permit me, I 
shall return to Ayrshire, and we 
shall meet; " and, faith, I hope we'll 
not sit dumb, nor yet cast out !" 

I have much to tell you ' ' of men, 
their manners, and their ways," per- 
haps a little of the other sex. Apro- 
pos, I beg- to be remembered to Mrs. 
Brown. There I doubt not, my dear 
friend, but j^ou have found substantial 
happiness. I expect to find you some- 
thing of an altered, but not a different 
man; the wild, bold, generous young 
fellow composed into the steady affec- 
tionate husband, and the fond 'careful 
parent. For me, I am just the same 
will-o'-wisp being I used to be. About 
the first and fourth quarters of the 
moon, I generally set in for the trade- 
wind of wisdom; but about the full 
and change, I am the luckless victim 
of mad tornadoes which blow me into 
chaos. Almighty love still reigns and 
revels in my bosom; and I am at this 
moment ready to hang myself for a 
young Edinburgh widow.* who has 
wit and wisdom more murderously 
fatal than the assassinating stiletto 
of the Sicilian bandit, or the poisoned 
arrow of the savage African. My High- 
land dirk, that used to hang beside my 
crutches, I have gravely removed into 
a neighbouring closet, the key of 
which I cannot command in case of 
springtide paroxysms. You may 
guess of her wit by the following 
verses, which she sent me the other 
day. 

My best compliments to our friend 
Allan.— Adieu! R. B. 



No. XCVII. 
TO GAVIN HAMILTON. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. 

My dear Sir, — It is indeed with the 

highest pleasure that I congratulate 

you on the return of days of ease 

and nights of pleasure, after the hor. 



* This was Mrs. M'Lehose, (Clarinda.) She 
■was not a widow, but was separated from her 
busband, who was in Jamaica. 



rid hours of misery in which I sav; 
you suffering existence when last in 
Ayrshire. 1 seldom pray for anybody 
— "I'm baithdead-sweer and wretched 
ill o't; " but most fervently do I beseecii 
the Power that directs the world tlia!: 
you may live long and be happy, but 
live no longer than you are happy. It 
is needless for me to advise you t.) 
have a reverend care of your health. 1 
know you will make it a point never 
at one time to drink more than a pint 
of wine (I mean an English pint,) and 
that you will never be witness to more 
than one bowl of punch at a time, and 
that cold drams you will never more 
taste; and, above all things I am con- 
vinced that after drinking perhaps 
boiling punch you will never mount 
your horse and gallop home in a chill 
late hour. Above all things, as I 
understand you are in habits of inti- 
macy with that Boanerges of gospel 
powers. Father Auld, be earnest with 
him that he will wrestle in prayer for 
you, that you may see the vanity of 
vanities in trusting to, or even practis- 
ing the casual moral works of, charity, 
humanity, generosity, and forgive- 
ness of things, which you practised so 
flagrantly that it was evident you de- 
lighted in them, neglecting, or perhaps 
profanely despising, the wholesome 
doctrine of faith without works, the 
only author of salvation. A hymn of 
thanksgiving would, in my opinion be 
highly becoming from you at present, 
and, in my zeal for your wellbeing, I 
earnestly press on you to be diligent in 
chanting over the two enclosed piece* 
of sacred poesy. My best compliments 
to Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy, i 
— Yours, &c., R. B. 



No. XCVIII. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 1787, 

My dear Madam, — I just now have 
read yours. The poetic compliments 
I pay cannot be misunderstood. They 
are neither of them so particular as to 
point you out to the world at large; 



896 



BURNS' WORKS. 



and the circle of your acquaintances 
•will allow all I have said. Besides, I 
liave complimented you chiefly, almost 
solely, on your mental charms. Shall 
I be plain with you? I will; so look 
to it. Personal attractions madam, 
you have much above par: wit, under- 
standing, and worth, you possess in 
the first class. This is a cursed flat 
way of telling you these truths, but let 
me hear no more of your sheepish tim- 
idity. 1 know the world a little. I 
know what they will say of my poems 
— by second sight I suppose — for I am 
seldom out in my conjectures; and you 
may believe me, my dear madam, I 
would not run any risk of hurting you 
by any ill-judged compliment. I wish 
to show to the world the odds between 
a poet's friends and those of simple 
prosemen. More for your informa- 
tion — both the pieces go in. One of 
them, '* Where, braving angry win- 
ter's storms," is already set — the tune 
is Neil Gow's Lamentation for Aber- 
cairiiy; the other is to be set to an old 
Highland air in Daniel Dow's collec- 
tion of ancient Scots music; the name 
is " //a a Chaillich air mo Dheith.'' 
My treacherous memory has forgot 
R very circumstance about ' ' Les Incas, " 
only I think you mentioned them as 
being in Creech's possession. I shall 
ask him about it. I am afraid the 
song of "Somebody" will come too 
late, as I shall, for certain leave town 
in a week for Ayrshire, and from that 
to Dumfries, but there my hopes are 
slender. I leave my direction in town, 
so anything, wherever I am, will 
reach me. 

I saw yours to ; it is not too 

severe, nor did he take it amiss. On 
the contrary, like a wliipt spaniel, he 
talks of being with you in the Christ- 
mas days. Mr. has given him the 

invitation, and he is determined to ac- 
cept of it. O, selfishness ! he owns, 
in his sober moments, that from his 
own volatility of inclination, the cir- 
cumstances in which he is situated, 
and his knowledge of his father's dis- 
position, the whole affair is chimerical 
—yet he wiU gratify an idle penchant 
at the enormous, cruel expense, of 



perhaps ruining the peace of tha 
very woman for whom he pro- 
fesses the generous passion of lovel 
he is a gentleman in his mind and 
manners — tant pis ! He is a volatile 
schoolboy — the heir of a man's for- 
tune who well knows the value of two 
times two! 

Perdition seize them and their for- 
tunes, before they should make the 

amiable, the lovely the derided 

object of their purse-proud contempt! 

I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. 

's recovery, because I really 

thought all was over with her. There 
are days of pleasure yet awaiting her: 

" As I came in by Glenap, 

I met wiih an aged woman ; 
She bade me cheer up my heart, 

For the best o' my days was comin'.' * 

This day will decide my affairs with 
Creech. Things are, like myself, not 
what they ought to be; yet better than 
what they appear to be. 

" Heaven's Sovereign saves all beings but 
Himself • 
That hideous sight— a naked human heart !" 

Farewell ! remember me to Char- 
lotte. 

B. B. 



No. XCIX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, Jan. 21, 1788. 

After six weeks' confinement, I am 
beginning to walk across the room. 
They have been six horrible weeks; 
anguish and low spirits made me un- 
fit to read, write, or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that 
one could resign life as an officer re- 
signs a commission; for I would not 
take in any poor ignorant wretch by 
selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny- 
private; and, God knows, a miserable" 
soldier enough; now I march to the 
campaign a starving cadet — a little 
more conspicuously wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this; for though 

* This is an old popular "rhyme, and was 4 
great favourite with the poet. Glenap is JA 
the south of Ayrshire. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCK 



397 



I do waut bravery for the warfare of 
life, I could wish, like some other sol- 
diers, to have as much fortitude or 
cunning as to dissemble or conceal my 
cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, 
which will be, I suppose, about the 
middle of next week, I leave Edin- 
burgh: and soon after I shall pay my 
grateful dutv at Dunlop House. 

R. B. 



No. C. 



EXTRACT FROM A LETTER TO 

THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, Feb. 12, 1788. 

Some things in your late letters hurt 
me: not that you say them, but that 
you mistake me. Religion, my hon- 
oured madam, has not only been all 
my life my chief dependence, but my 
dearest enjoyment. I have, indeed, 
been the luckless victim of wayward 
foLies; but, alas! I have ever been 
"more fool than knave." A mathe- 
matician without religion is a probable 
character: an irreligious poet is a 
monster. 

R. is. 



No. CI. 



TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

Edinburgh, Feb. 14, 1788. 

Reverend and dear Sir, — I have 
been a cripple now near three months, 
though I am getting vastly better, and 
have been very much hurried besides, 
or else I would have written you soon- 
er. I must beg your pardon for the 
epistle you sent me appearing in the 
magazine. I had given a copy or two 
to some of my intimate friends, but 
did not know of the printing of it till 
the publication of the magazine. How- 
ever, as it does great honour to us 
both, you will forgive it. 

The second volume of the songs I 
mentioned to you in my last is pub- 
lished to-day. I send you a copy. 



which I beg you will accept as a mark 
of the veneration I have long had, and 
shall ever luivc^, for your character, 
and of the claim I make to your con- 
tinued acquaintance. Your songs ap- 
pear in the third volume, with your 
name in the index; as I assure you, sir, 
I have heard your " Tullochgorum," 
particularly among our west-country 
folks, given to many different names, 
and most commonly to the immortal 
author of "The Minstrel," who. in- 
deed, never wrote anything superior to 
"Gie's a sang, Montgomery cried." 
Your brother has promised me your 
verses to the Marquis of Huntley's reel, 
which certainly deserve a place in the 
collection. My kind host, Mr. Cruik- 
shank, of the High School here, and 
said to be one of the best Latinists of 
this age, begs me to make you his 
grateful acknowledgments for the 
entertainment he has got in a Latin 
publication of yours, that I borrowed 
for him from your acquaintance and 
much-respected friend in this place, 
the Rev. Dr. Webster. Mr. Cruik- 
shank maintains that you write the 
best Latin since Buchanan. I leave 
Edinburgh to-morrow, but shall return 
in three weeks. Your song you men- 
tioned in your last, to the tune of 
"Dumbarton Drums," and the other, 
which you say was done by a brother 
in trade of mine, a ploughman, I shall 
thank you much for a copy of each. — I 
am ever, rev. sir, with the most re- 
spectful esteem and sincere veneration, 
yours, R. B. 



No. CII. 

TO RICHARD BROWN. 

Edinburgh, Feb. 15, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — I received yours 
with the greatest pleasure. I shall 
arrive at Glasgow on Monday evening; 
and beg, if possible, you will meet 
me on Tuesday. I shall wait for you 
Tuesday all day. 1 shall be found at 
Davies's Black Bull Inn, I am hur- 
ried, as if hunted by fifty devils, else 
I should go to Greenock; but if you 
cannot possibly come, write me, if pes- 



898 



BURNS' WORKS. 



3 



Bible, to Glasgow, on Monday; or 
direct to me at Mossgiel by Maucliline; 
and name a day and place in Ayrshire, 
within a fortnight from this date, 
where I may meet you. I onl}'^ stay a 
fortnight in Ayrshire, and return to 
Edinburgh. — I am ever, my dearest 
friend, yours, R. B. 



No. cm. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, Sunday, Feb. 15, 1788. 

To-morrow, my dear madam, I 
leave Edinburgh. I have altered all 
my plans of future life. A farm that I 
could live in I could not find; and. in- 
deed, after the necessary support my 
brother and the rest of the family re- 
quired, I could not venture on farming 
in that style suitable to my feelings. 
You will condemn me for the next step 
I have taken. I have entered into the 
Excise. I stay in the west about three 
weeks, and then return to Edinburgh 
for six weeks' instructions; afterwards, 
for I get employ instantly, 1 go ou il 
plait d JDieu et moii roi. I have 
chosen this, my dear friend, after 
mature deliberation. The question is 
not at what door of fortune's palace 
we shall enter in, but what doors does 
she open to us. I was not likely to get 
anything to do. I wanted un hut, 
which is a dangerous, an unhappy situ- 
ation. I got this without any hanging 
on or mortifying solicitation; it is 
immediate bread, and, though poor in 
comparison of the last eighteen months 
of my existence, 'tis luxury in com- 
parison of all my preceding life: be- 
sides, the commissioners are some of 
them my acquaintances, and all of 
them my firm friends. R. B. 



No. CIV. 
TO THE SAME. 

[No date.] 
Now for that wayward, unfortunate 
thing, myself. I have broke measures 
With Creech, and last week I wrote him 



a frosty, keen letter. He replied in 
terms of chastisement, and promised 
me upon his honour that I should have 
the account on Monday; but this is 
Tuesday, and yet I have not heard a 
word from him. God have mercy on 
me! a poor damned, incautious, duped, 
unfortunate fool! The sport, the 
miserable victim of rebellious pride, 
hypochondriac imagination, agonizing 
sensibility, and bedlam passions! 

" I wish that I were dead, but I'm 
no like to die!" I had lately " a hair- 
breadth 'scape i' th' imminent deadly 
breach " of love too. Thank my stars 
I got off heart-whole, " waur fieyed 
than hurt." — Interruption. 

I have this moment got a hint; I fear 
I am something like — undone; but I 
hope for the best. Come, stubborn 
pride and unshrinking resolution; ac- 
company me through this, to me miser- 
able world! You must not desert me I 
Your friendship I think I can count on, 
though 1 should date my letters from 
a marching regiment. Early in life, 
and all my life, I reckoned on a recruit- 
ing drum as my forlorn hope. Serious- 
ly, though life at present presents me 
with but a melancholy path; but — 
my limb will soon be sound, and I 
shall struggle on. R. B. 



No. CV. 



TO MRS. ROSE OF KILRAVOCK. 

Edinburgh, Feb. 17, 1788. 

Madam, — You are much indebted to 
some indispensable business I have had 
on my hands, otherwise my gratitude 
threatened such a return for your 
obliging favour as would have tired 
your patience. It but poorly expresses 
my feelings to say that I am sensible 
of your kindness: it may be said of 
hearts such as yours is, and such I hope, 
mine is, much more justly than Addi- 
son applies it. — 

" Some souls by instinct to each other turn." 

There was something in my recep- 
tion at Kihavock so different from the 
cold, obsequious, dancing-school bow 



GENERAL C0IlRESP01Sn)E:^TCE. 



m 



of politeness, tliht it almost got into 
my head that friendship had occupied 
her ground without the intermediate 
march of acquaintance^ I wish I could 
transcribe, or rather transfuse, into 
language the glow of my keart when I 
read your letter. My ready fancy, 
with colours more mellow than life 
itself, painted the beautifully-wild 
scenery of Kilrav'ock — the venerable 
grandeur of the castle — the spreading 
woods — the winding river, gladly leav- 
ing his unsightly, heathy source, and 
lingering with apparent delight as he 
passes the fairy walk at the bottom of 
the garden ; — your late distressful 
anxieties — your present enjoyments — 
your dear little angel, the pride of 
your hopes; — my aged friend, vener- 
able in worth and years, whose loyalty 
and other virtues will strongly entitle 
her to the support of the Almighty 
Spirit here, and His peculiar favour in 
a happier state of existence. You can- 
not imagine, madam, how much such 
feelings delight me ; they are the dear- 
est proofs of my own immortality. 
Should I never revisit the north, as 
probably I never will, nor again see 
your hospitable mansion, were I, some 
twenty years hence, to see your little 
fellow's name making a proper figure 
in a newspaper paragraph, my heart 
would bound with pleasure. 

I am assisting a friend in a collec- 
tion of Scottish songs, set to their 
proper tunes; every air worth preserv- 
ing is to be included; among others, I 
have given "Morag," and some few 
I Highland airs which pleased me most, 
fa dress which will be moie generally 
'known, though far, far inferior in real 
merit. As a small mark of my grate- 
ful esteem, I beg leave to present you 
with a copy of the work, as far as it is 
printed; the Man of Feeling, that first 
of men, has promised to transmit it 
by the first opportunity. 

I beg to be remembered most re- 
spectfully to my venerable friend, and 
to your little Highland chieftain. 
When you see the ' ' two fair spirits of 
the hill" at Kildrummie,* tell them I 



* Miss Sophia Brodie of 
Rose of Kilravock. 



-, and Miss 



have done myself the honour of setting 
myself down as one of their admirers 
for at least twenty years to come, con- 
sequently they must look upon me as 
an acquaintance for the same period; 
but, as the apostle Paul says, "this I 
ask of grace, not of debt. " — I have the 
Uopour to be, madam, &c. , 

R. B. 



No. CVI. 
TO RICHARD BROWN. 

MossGiEL, Feb. 24, 1788. 

My dear Sir, — I cannot get the 
proper direction for my friend in Ja- 
maica, but the following will do: — To 
Mr. Jo. Hutchinson, at Jo. Brown- 
rigg's, Esq., care of Mr. Benjamin 
Henriquez, merchant, Orange Street, 
Kingston. I arrived here, at my broth- 
er's only yesterday, after fighting my 
way through Paisley and Kilmarnock 
against those old powerful foes of 
mine, the devil, the world, and the 
flesh — so terrible in the fields of dissi- 
pation. I have met with few incidents 
in my life which gave me so much 
pleasure as meeting you in Glasgow. 
There is a time of life beyond which 
we cannot form a tie worthy the name 
of friendship. ' ' O youth ! enchanting 
stage, profusely blest." Life is a fairy 
scene: almost all that deserves the 
name of enjoyment or pleasure is only 
a charming delusion; and in comes 
repining age, in all the gravity of hoary 
wisdom, and wretchedly chases away 
the bewitching phantom. When I 
think of life, I resolve to keep a strict 
look-out in the course of economy, for 
the sake of worldly convenience and 
independence of mind; to cultivate in- 
timacy with a few of the companions 
of youth that they may be the friends 
of age: never to refuse my liquorish 
humour a handful of the sweetmeats 
of life, when they come not too dear; 
and, for futurity — 

The present moment is our ain, 
The neist we never saw ! 

How like you my philosophy ? Give 
my best compliments to Mrs. B., and 



400 



BURKS' WORKS. 



believe me to be, my dear sir, yours 
most truly, R. B. 

[The poet was now nearly recovered 
from the disaster of the ' ' maimed 
limb." He endured his confinement 
with the more patience that it en- 
abled him to carry on his correspond- 
ence with Clarinda, and write songs 
for Johnson's Musical Museum. — 
Cunningham.] 



No. CVII. 
TO . 

MossGiEL, Friday Morning'. 

Sib, — The language of refusal is to 
me the'most difficult language on earth, 
and you are the [only] man of the 
world, excepting one of Rt. Honle. des- 
ignation, to whom it gives me the 
greatest pain to hold such language. 
My brother has already got money, and 
shall want nothing in my power to en- 
able him to fulfil his engagement with 
you: but to be security on so large a 
scale, even for a brother, is what I 
dare not do, except I were in such cir- 
cumstances of life as that the worst 
that might happen could not greatly 
injure me. 

I never wrote a letter which gave me 
so much pain in my life, as I know the 
unhappy consequences; I shall incur 
the displeasure of a gentleman for 
whom I have the highest respect, and 
to whom I am deeply obliged. — I am 
ever, sir, your obliged and very humble 
gervant, Robert Burns. 



No. CVIII. 

TO MR. WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. 

Mauchline, March 3, 1788. 
My dear Sir, — Apologies for not 
writing are frequently like apologies 
for not singing — the apology better 
than the song. I have fought my way 
severely through the savage hopitality 
of this country to send every guest 
drunk to bed if they can. 



1 executed yoilr cojiimission in Glas» 
gow, and I hope the cocoa came safe. 
'Twas the same price and the very 
same kind as your former parcel, for 
the gentleman recollected your buying 
there perfectly well. 

I should return my thanks for yoi^r 

hospitality (I leave a blank for 

the epithet, as I know none can do it 
justice) to a poor way-faring bard, who 
was spent and almost over powered, 
fighting with prosaic wickedness in 
high places; but I am afraid lest you 
should burn the letter whenever you 
come to the passage, so I pass over it 
in silence. I am just returned from 
visiting Mr. Miller's farm. The friend 
whom I told you I would take with me 
was highly pleased with the farm; and 
as he is without exception the most in- 
telligent farmer in the country, he has 
staggered me a good deal. I have the 
two plans of life before me; I shall 
balance them to the best of my judg- 
ment, and fix on the most eligible. I 
have written Mr. Miller, and shall wait 
on him when I come to town, which 
shall be the beginning or middle of 
next week; I would be in sooner, but 
my unlucky knee is rather worse, and 
I fear for some time will scarcely stand 
the fatigue of my excise instructions. 
I only mention these ideas to you: and 
indeed, except Mr. Ainslie, whom I in- 
tend writing to to-morrow, I will not 
write at all to Edinburgh till I return 
to it. I would send my compliments to 
Mr. Nicol, but he would be hurt if he 
knew I wrote to anybody and not to 
him: so I shall only beg my best, 
kindest compliments to my worthy 
hostess and the sweet little rosebud. 

So soon as I am settled in the routing 
of life, either as an Excise-officer, or 
as a farmer, I propose myself great 
pleasure from a regular correspond- 
ence with the only man almost I evei 
saw who joined the most attentive pru- 
dence with the warmest generosity, 

I am much interested for that best of 
men, Mr. Wood; I hope he is in bet 
tor health and spirits than when I saw 
him last. — I am ever, my dearest friend, 
your obliged, humble servant, 

R. B. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



401 



1^6. CIX. 
TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

Mauchlike, March 3, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — ^I am just re- 
turned from Mr. Miller's farm. My 
old friend whom I took with me was 
highly pleased with the bargain, and 
•advised me to accept of it. He is the 
most intelligent sensible farmer in the 
county,* and his advice has staggered 
me a good deal. I have the two plans 
before me: I shall endeavour to balance 
them to the best of my judgment, and 
fix on the most eligible. On the whole, 
if I find Mr. Miller in the same favour- 
able disposition as when I saw him 
last, I shall in all probability turn 
farmer. 

I have been through sore tribula- 
tion, and under much buffeting of the 
wicked one since I came to this coun- 
try. Jean I found banished, forlorn, 
destitute, and friendless : I have recon- 
ciled her to her fate, and I have recon- 
ciled her to her mother, f 

I shall be in Edinburgh the middle 
of next week. My farming ideas I shall 
keep private till I see. I got a letter 
from Clarinda yesterday, and she tells 
me she has got no letter of mine but 
one. Tell her that I wrote to her from 
Glasgow, from Kilmarnock, from 
Mauchline, and yesterday from Cum- 
nock as 1 returned from Dumfries. In- 
deed she is the only person in Edin- 
burgh I have written to till this day. 
How are your soul and body putting 
up ? — a little like man and wife, I sup- 
'pose. R. B. 



No. ex. 
TO RICHARD BROWN. 

Mauchline, March 7, 1788. 

I HAVE been out of the country, my 
dear friend, and have not had an op- 



* The " sensible' farmer who accompanied 
Burns to Dalsvvinton, and influenced him in 
taking the farm of EUisland, was Mr. Tait of 
Glenconner, to whom the poet addressed a 
aietrical epistle. (See p. 170.) 

T Od the very day this was written Jean 
was delivered of twins— girls— the unfortu- 
nate result of their renewed intimacy. The 
infants died a few days after their birth. 



portunity of writing till now, when I 
am afraid you wi?^ \)e gone out of the 
country too. 1 have been looking at 
farms, and, after all, perhaps 1 may 
settle in the character of a farmer. I 
have got so vicious a bent on idleness, 
and have ever been so little a man of 
business, that it will take no ordinary 
effort to bring my mind properly into 
the routine: but you will say a " great 
effort is worthy of you. " I say so my- 
self ; and butter up my vanity with all 
the stimulating compliments I can 
think of. Men of grave, geometrical 
minds, the sons of ' ' which was to be 
demonstrated," may cry up reason as 
much as they please; but I have 
always found an honest passion, or 
native instinct, the truest auxiliary in 
the warfare of this world. Reason 
almost always comes to me like an un- 
lucky wife to a poor devil of a hus- 
band, just in sufl&cient time to add her 
reproaches to his other grievances. 

I am gratified with your kind in- 
quiries after Jean; as, after all, I may 
say with Othello — 

" Excellent wretch ! 
Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee !** 

I go for Edinburgh on Monday. — 
Yours, 

R. B. 



No. CXI. 

TO MR. MUIR, KILMARNOCK. 

MossGiEL, March 7, 1788. 

Dear Sir, — I have partly changed 
my ideas, my dear friend, since I saw 
you. I took old Glenconner with me to 
Mr. Miller's farm, and he was so 
pleased with it that I have written an 
offer to Mr. Miller, which, if he ac- 
cepts, I shall sit down a plain farmer, 
the happiest of lives when a man can 
live by it. In this case I shall not 
stay in Edinburgh above a week I 
set out on Monday, and would have 
come by Kilmarnock, but there are 
several small sums owing me for my 



409 



BtmiS-S' WORKS. 



first edition about Galston and New- 
mills, and I shall set off so early as to 
despatch my business and reach Glas- 
gow by night. When I return, I 
shall devote a forenoon or two to make 
some kind of acknowledgment for all 
the kindness I owe your friendship. 
Now that 1 hope to settle with some 
credit and comfort at home, there was 
not any friendship or friendly corres- 
pondence that promised me more 
pleasure than yours; I hope I will not 
be disappointed. I trust the spring 
will renew your shattered frame, and 
make your friends happy. You and 
I have often agreed that life is no 
great blessing on the whole. The 
close of life, indeed, to a reasoning age. 
Is 

" Dark as was chaos ere the infant sun 
Was roU'd together, or had tried his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound." 

But an honest man has nothing to 
fear. If we lie down in the grave, 
the whole man a piece of broken 
machinery, to moulder with the clods 
of the valley, be it so; at least there is 
an end of pain, cure, woes, and wants: 
if that part of us called mind does sur- 
vive the apparent destruction of the 
man — away with old wife prejudices 
and tales ! Every age and every 
nation has had a different set of 
stories; and as the many are always 
weak of consequence, they have often, 
perhaps always, been deceived: a man 
conscious of having acted an honest 
part among his fellow creatures — even 
granting that he may have been the 
j sport at times of passions and instincts 
• —he goes to a great unknown Being, 
who could have no other end in giving 
him existence but to make him happy, 
who gave him those passions and in- 
stincts, and well knows their force. 

These, my worthy friend, are my 
ideas; and I know they are not far 
different from yours. It becomes a 
man of sense to think for himself, par- 
ticularly in a case where all men are 
equally interested, and where, indeed, 
all men are equally in the dark. — 
Adieu, my dear sir; God send us a 
cheerful meeting I 

R. B. 



No. CXII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

MossGiEL, March 17, 178S. 

Madam, — The last paragraph in 
yours of the 20th February affected 
me most, so I shall begin my answer 
where you ended your letter. That I 
am often a sinner with any little wit I 
have, I do confess: but 1 have taxed 
my recollection to no purpose to find 
out when it was employed against 
you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a 
great deal worse than I do the devil; 
at least as Milton describes him; and 
though I may be rascally enough to be 
sometimes guilty of it myself, I cannot 
endure it in others. You, my hon- 
oured friend, who cannot appear in 
any light but you are sure of being re- 
spectable, you can afford to pass by an 
occasion to display your wit, because 
you may depend for fame on your 
sense; or, if you choose to be silent, 
you know you can rely on the grati- 
tude of many, and the esteem of all; 
but God help us who are wits or wit- 
lings by profession, if we stand not 
for fame there, we sink unsupported ! 

I am highly flattered by the news 
you tell me of Coila. I may say to 
the fair painter* who does me so much 
honour, as Dr. Beattie says to Ross, 
the poet of his muse Scota, from which, 
by the by, I took the idea of Coila ('tis 
a poem of Beattie's in the Scottish dia- 
lect, which Derhaps you have never 
seen): — 

" Ye shake your head, but o' my fegs 
Ye've set auld Scota on her legs ; 
Lang had she lien wi' beffs and negs, 

Bumbazed and dizzie ; 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Wae's me, poor hizzie !" 

R. B. 



No. CXIII. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, March 14, 1788; 

I KNOW, my ever- dear friend, that 
you will be pleased with the news when 

* One of the daughters of Mrs. Dunlop is 
here intimated. She was painting a sketclt 
from the Coila of " The visioa," 



GENERAI. C0E-RESP0:JTOENCE. 



40S 



I tell you I have at last taken a lease of 
a farm. Yesternight I completed a 
bargain with Mr. Miller of Dalswinton 
for the farm of Ellisland, on the banks 
the Nith, between five and six miles 
above Dumfries. I begin at Whitsun- 
day to build a house, drive lime, &c. ; 
and Heaven be my help ! for it will 
take a strong effort to bring my mind 
into the routine of business. I have 
discharged all the army of my former 
pursuits, fancies, and pleasures; a mot- 
ley host ! and have literally and strict- 
ly retained only the ideas of a few 
friends, which I have incorporated in- 
to a lifeguard. I trust in Dr. John- 
son's observation, " Where much is 
attempted, something is done." Firm- 
ness, both in sufferance and exertion, 
is a character I would wish to be 
thought to possess: and have always 
despised the whining yelp of com- 
plaint, and the cowardly, feeble re- 
solve. 

Poor Miss K is ailing a good deal 

this winter, and begged me to remem- 
ber her to you the first time I wrote 
to you. Surely woman, amiable 
woman, is often made in vain. Too 
delicately formed for the rougher pur- 
suits of ambition; too noble for the 
dirt of avarice, and even too gentle for 
the rage of pleasure; formed indeed 
for, and highly susceptible of, enjoy- 
ment, and rapture; but that enjoy- 
ment, alas ! almost wholly at the 
mercy of the caprice, malevolence, 
stupidity, or wickedness of an animal 
at all times comparatively unfeeling, 
and often brutal. 

R. B, 



No. CXIV. 

TO RICHARD BROWN. 

Glasgow, March 26, 1788. 

I AM monstrously to blame, my dear 
bI^', in not writing to you, and sending 
you the Directory. I have been get- 
ting my tack extended, as I have taken 
a farm; and I have been racking shop 
accounts with Mr. Creech, both of 
which, together with watching, fa- 



tigue, and a load of care almost too 
heavy for my shoulders, have in some 
degree actually fevered me. I really 
forgot the Directory yesterday, which 
vexed me; but I was convulsed with 
rage a great part of the day. I have to 
thank you for the ingenious, friendly 
and elegant epistle from your friend 
Mr, Crawford. I shall certainly write 
to him, but not now. This is merely 
a card to you, as I am posting to Dum- 
friesshire, where many perplexing ar- 
rangements await me. 1 am vexed 
about the Directory; but, my dear sir, 
forgive me; these eight days I have 
been positively crazed. My compli- 
ntents to Mrs. B. I shall write to you 
at Grenada. I am ever, my dearest 
friend, yours, 

R. B. 



No. CXV. 

TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

Mauchline, March 31, 1788. 

Yesterday, my dear sir, as I was 
riding through a track of melancholy, 
joyless moors, between Galloway and 
Ayrshire, it being Sunday, I turned my 
thoughts to psalms, and hymns, and 
spiritual songs; and your favourite air, 
" Captain O'Kean," coming at length 
into my head, I tried these words to it. 
You will see that the first part of the 
tune must be repeated.* 

I am tolerably pleased with these 
verses; but as I have only a sketch of 
the tune, I leave it with you to try if 
they suit the measure of the music. 

I am so harassed with care and 
anxiety, about this farming project of 
mine, that my muse has degenerated 
into the veriest prose- wench that ever 
picked cinders, or followed a tinker. 
When I am fairly got into the routine 
of business, I shall trouble you with a 
longer epistle; perhaps with some 
queries respecting farming: at present, 
the world sits such a load on my mind 
that it has effaced almost every trace of 
the poet in me. 

* Here the bard gives the first two stanzas 
of " The Chevalier's Lament." 



404 



BURNS' WORKS. 



My very best compliments and good 
wishes to Mrs. Clegliorn. R. B. 



No. CXVI. 

TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR, 

EDINBURGH. 

Mauchline, Apnl 7, 1788. 

I HAVE not delayed so long to write 
to you, my much respected friend, be- 
cause I thought no farther of my 
promise. I have long since given up 
that kind of formal correspondence 
where one sits down irksomely to write 
a letter because we think we are in 
duty bound so to do. 

I have been roving over the country, 
as the farm I have taken is forty miles 
from this place, hiring servants and 
preparing matters; but most of all, I 
am earnestly busy to bring about a 
revolution in my own mind. As, till 
within these eighteen months, I never 
was the wealthy master of ten guineas, 
my knowledge of business is to learn; 
add to this, my late scenes of idleness 
and dissipation have enervated my 
mind to an alarming degree. Skill in 
the sober science of life is my most 
serious and hourly study. I have 
dropt all conversation and all reading 
(prose reading) but what tends in some 
way or other to my serious aim. 
Except one worthy young fellow, I 
have not one single correspondent in 
Edinburgh. You have indeed kindly 
made me an offer of that kind. The 
world of wits and gens comme il faut 
which I lately left, and with whom I 
never again will intimately mix — 
from that port, sir, I expect your 
Gazette: what les beaux esprits are 
saying, what they are doing, and what 
they are singing. Any sober intelli- 
gence from my sequestered walks of 
life; any droll original; any passing 
remark, important forsooth, because 
it is mine; any little poetic effort, 
however embryoeth; these, my dear 
sir, are all you have to expect from 
me. When I talk of poetic efforts, I 
must have it always understood that 



I appeal from your wit and taste to 
your friendship and good nature. 
The first would be my favourite trib. 
unal, where 1 defied censure ; but th€ 
last, where I declined justice. 

1 have scarcely made a single dis- 
tich since 1 saw you. When I meet 
with an old Scots air that has any 
facetious idea in its name, I have a 
peculiar pleasure in following out 
that idea for a verse or two. 

I trust that this will find you in better 
health than I did last time I called for 
you. A few lines from you, directed, 
to me at Mauchline, were it but to let 
me know how you are, will set my 
mind a good deal [at rest.] Now, 
never shun the idea of writing me 
because perhaps you may be out of 
humour or spirits. I could give you 
a hundred good consequences attend- 
ing a dull letter; one, for example, 
and the remaining ninety-nine some 
other time — it will always serve to 
keep in countenance, my much-re« 
spected sir, your obliged friend and 
humble servant, 

R. B. 



No. CXVII. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Mauchline, April 7, 1788. 

I AM indebted to you and Miss 
Nimmo for letting me know Miss Ken- 
nedy, Strange, how apt we are to in- 
dulge prejudices in our judgments of 
one another ! Even I, who pique my- 
self on my skill in marking characters 
— because I am too proud of my char- 
acter as a man to be dazzled in my 
judgment for glaring wealth, and too 
proud of my situation as a poor man 
to be biased against squalid poverty 
— I was unacquainted with Miss K.'s 
very uncommon worth. 

I am going on a good deal progres- 
sive in mon grand hut, the sober sci- 
ence of life. I have lately made some 
sacrifices, for which, were I viva voct 
with you to paint the situation and re- 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



405 



count the circumstances, you would 
applaud me.* 

K B. 



No. CXVill. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, April 28, 1788. 

^ Madam, — Your powers of reprelien- 
Bion must be great indeed, as I assure 
you they made my heart ache with 
penitential pangs, even though I was 
really not guilty. As I commence 
farmer at Whitsunday, you will easily 
guess I must be pretty busy; but that 
is not all. As I got the offer of the 
Excise business without solicitation, 
and as it costs me only six months' at- 
tendance for instructions, to entitle 
me to a commission — which commis- 
sion lies by me, and at any future 
period, on my simple petition, can be 
resumed — I thought five-and-thirty 
pounds a year was no bad dernier res- 
sort for a poor poet, if fortune in her 
jade tricks should kick him down 
from the little eminence to which she 
has lately helped him up. 

For this reason I am at present at- 
tending these instructions to have 
them completed before Whitsunday. 
Still, madam, I prepared with the 
sincerest pleasure to meet you at the 
Mount, and came to my brother's on 
Saturday night, to set out on Sunday; 
but for some nights preceding I had 
slept in an apartment where the force 
of the winds and rains was only miti- 
gated by being sifted through number- 
less apertures in the windows, walls, 
&c. In consequence I was on Sunday, 
Monday, and part of Tuesday, unable 
to stir out of bed, with all the miser- 
able effects of a violent cold. 

You see, madam, the truth of the 
French maxim, Le vrai n'est pas tou- 
jours le vraisemblable. Your last was 
BO full of expostulation, and was some- 
thing so like the language of an 
offended friend, that I began to trem- 
ble for a correspondence which I had 

* The sacrifices alluded to referred to his 
determination to marry Jean Armour. 



with grateful pleasure set down as on« 
of the greatest enjoyments of my fu- 
ture life. 

Your books have delighted me. 
Virgil, Dryden, and Tasso, were all 
equally strangers to me; but of this 
more at large in my next. 

R. B. 



No. CXIX. 

TO MR. JAMES SMITH, AVON 
PRINTFIELD, LINLITHGOW. 
Mauchline, April 28, 1788. 

Beware of your Strasburg, my 
good sir ! Look on this the opening 
of a correspondence, like the opening 
of a twenty -four gun battery! 

There is no understanding a man 
properly without knowing something 
of his previous ideas (that is to say, if 
the man has any ideas; for I know 
many who, in the animal muster, pass 
for men, that are the scanty masters of 
only one idea on any given subject, 
and by far the greatest part of your 
acquaintances and mine can barely 
boast of ideas, 1 -25 — 1 -5 — 1 -75 (or some 
such fractional matter); so to let you 
a little into the secrets of my peri- 
cranium, there is, you must know, a 
certain clean-limbed, handsome, be- 
witching young hussy of your ac- 
quaintance, to whom I have lately 
and privately given a matrimonial 
title to my corpus, 

" Bode a robe and wear it. 
Bode a pock and bear it," 

says the wise old Scots adage. I hate 
to presage ill-luck; and as my girl has 
been doubly kinder to me than even 
the best of women usually are to 
their partners of our sex in similar 
circumstances, I reckon on twelve 
times a brace of children against I cel- 
ebrate my twelfth wedding day: these 
twenty-four will give me twenty-four 
gossipings, twenty-four christenings, 
(I mean one equal to two,) and I hope, 
by the blessing of the God of my 
fathers, to make them twenty-four 
dutiful children to their parentsj 



m 



Bunys' WORKS. 



twenty-four useful members of society, 
and twenty-four approven servants 
of their God. 

" Liglit's heartsome," quo' the wife 
^hen she was stealing sheep. You 
gee what a lamp I have hung up to 
lighten your paths, when you are idle 
enough to explore the combinations 
and relations of my ideas. 'Tis now 
as plain as a pikestaff why a twenty- 
four gun battery was a metaphor I 
could readily employ. 

Now for business — I intend to pre- 
sent Mrs. Burns with a printed shawl, 
an article of which I daresay you have 
a variety; 'tis my first present to her 
since I have irrevocably called her 
mine, and I have a kind of whimsical 
wish to get her the first said present 
from an old and much-valued friend 
of hers and mine, a trusty Trojan, on 
whose friendship I count myself pos- 
sessed of as a life-rent lease. 

Look on this letter as a " beginning 
of sorrows;" I will write you till your 
eyes ache reading nonsense. 

Mrs. Burns ('tis only her private 
designation) begs her best compliments 
to you. 

R. B. 



No. CXX. 

TO PROFESSOR DUGALD 
STEWART.* 

Mauchline, May 3, 1783. 

Sir, — I enclose you one or two more 
of my bagatelles. If the fervent 
wishes of honest gratitude have any 
influence with that great unknown 
Being, who frames the chain of causes 
and events, prosperity and happiness 
will attend your visit to the Continent, 
and return you safe to your native 
shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me, sir, to 
claim it as my privilege to acquaint 



* The kindness of heart and amenity of 
manners of this distinguished philosopher 
were as conspicuous as his talents. The poet 
nas given an interesting estimate of his ac- 
complished friend'^ character in a letter to 
Dr. Mackeozie, wtiicU see at p. 360. 



you with my progress in my trade of 
rhymes; as I am sure I could say it 
with truth, that, next to my little 
fanie, and the having it in my power 
to make life more comfortable to those 
whom nature has made dear to me, I 
shall ever regard your countenance, 
your patronage, your friendly good 
offices, as the most valued consequence 
of my late success in life » 

R. B. I 



No. CXXI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

. Mauchline, May 4, 1788. 

Madam, — Dryden's Virgil has de- 
lighted me. I do not know whether 
the critics will agree with me, but the 
Georgics are to me by far the best part 
of Virgil. It is indeed a specie^ of 
writing entirely new to me; and has 
filled my head with a thousand fancies 
of emulation: but, alas ! when I read 
the Georgics, and then survey my own 
powers, 'tis like the idea of a Shetland 
pony drawn up by the side of a 
thoroughbred hunter, to start for the 
plate. I own I am disappointed in the 
^neid. Faultless correctness may 
please, and does highly please, the let- 
tered critic; but to that awful char- 
acter I have not the most distant pre- 
tensions. I do not know whether I 
do not hazard my pretensions to be a 
critic of 'any kind when I say that I 
think Virgil, in many instances, a ser- 
vile copier of Homer. If I had the 
Odyssey by me, I could parallel many 
passages where Virgil has evidently 
copied, but by no means improved 
Homer. Nor can I think there is any- 
thing of this owing to the translators; 
for, from everything I have seen of 
Dry den, I think him, in genius and 
fluency of language, Pope's master. 
I have not perused Tasso enough to 
form an opinion: in some future let- 
ter, you shall have my ideas of him; 
though I am conscious my criticisms 
must be very inaccurate and imperfect, 
as there I liavc ever felt and lamented 
my want of learning most. 

R. B. 



OENEHAL COntlESPONDENCE. 



40^ 



No. CXXII. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Mauchune, May 26, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — I am two kind 
letters in your debt, but I have been 
from home, and horridly busy, buying 
and preparing for my farming busi- 
ness, over and above the plague of my 
Excise instructions, w^hicli this week 
will finish. 

As I flatter my wishes that I foresee 
many future years' correspondence 
between us, 'tis foolish to talk of ex- 
cusing dull epistles; a dull letter may 
be a very kind one. — I have the 
pleasure to tell you that I have been 
extremely fortunate in all my buyings 
and bargainings hitherto; Mrs. Burns 
not excepted; which title I now avow 
to the world. I am truly pleased 
with this last affair: it has indeed 
added to anxieties for futurity, but it 
has given a stability to my mind and 
resolutions unknown before; and the 
poor girl has the most sacred enthu- 
siasm of attachment to me, and has 
not a wish but to gratify my every idea 
of her deportment. I am interrupted. 
Farewell ! my dear sir. 

R. B. 



No. CXXIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

May 27, 1788- 

Madam, — I have been torturing my 
philosophy to no purpose, to ac- 
count for that kind partiality of yours 
which has followed me, in my return 
to the shade of life, with assiduous 
benevolence. Often did I regret, in the 
fleeting hours of my late will-o'-wisp 
appearance, that "here I had no con- 
tinuing city;" and, but for the consola- 
tion of a few solid guineas, could al- 
most lament the time that a momen- 
tary acquaintance with wealth and 
splendour put me so much out of con- 
ceit with the sworn companions of my 
road through life — insignificance and 
poverty. 



There are few circumstances relat- 
ing to the unequal distribution of the 
good things of this life that give me 
more vexation (I mean in what I see 
around me) than the importance the 
opulent bestow on their trifling family 
affairs, compared with the very same 
things on the contracted scale of a 
cottage. Last afternoon I had the 
honour to spend an hour or to at a good 
woman's fireside, where the planks 
that composed the floor were decorated 
with a splendid carpet, and the gay 
table sparkled with silver and china. 
'Tis now about termday, and there hag 
been a revolution among those crea- 
tures, who though in appearance par- 
takers, and equally nobie partakers, of 
the same nature with madam, are from 
time to time — their nerves, their 
sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, 
experience, genius, time, nay, a good 
part of their very thoughts — sold for 
months and years, not only to the 
necessities, the conveniences, but the 
caprices of the important few. We 
talked of the insignificant creatures; 
nay, notwithstanding their general 
stupidity and rascality, did some of the 
poor devils the honour to commend 
them. But light be the turf upon his 
breast who taught, " Reverence thy- 
self !" We looked down on the un- 
polished wretches, their impertinent 
wives and clouterly brats, as the lordly 
bull does on the little dirty anthill, 
whose puny inhabitants he crushes in 
the carelessness of his ramble, or 
tosses in the air in the wantonness of hia 
pride. 

R. B. 



No. CXXIV. 
TO THE SAME. 

AT MR. DUNLOP'S, HADDINGTON. 

Ellisland, June 13, 1788. 

" Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless 

pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthen'd 

chain." — Goldsmith. 

Tins is the second day, my hon- 
oured friend, that I have been on lu^ 



408 



BTTRNS* WOUKS. 



farm. A solitary inmate of an old 
Bmoky spence; far from every object I 
love, or by whom I am beloved; not 
any acquaintance older than yesterday, 
except Jenny Geddes, the old mare I 
ride on; while uncouth cares and novel 
plans hourly insult my awkward ig- 
norance and bashful inexperience. 
There is a foggy atmosphere native to 
my soul in the hour of care; conse- 
quently the dreary objects seem larger 
tlian the life. Extreme sensibility, 
irritated and prejudiced on the gloomy 
side by a series of misfortunes and 
disappointments, at that period of my 
existence when the soul is laying in 
her cargo of ideas for the voyage of 
life, is, I believe, the principal cause 
of his unhappy frame of mind. 

*' The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? 

Or what need he regard his single woes?" 
&c. 

Your surmise, madam, is just; I am 
in'leed a husband. 



To jealousy or infidelity I am an 
equal stranger. My preservative from 
the first is the most thorough conscious- 
ness of her sentiments of honour, and 
her attachment to me: my antidote 
against the last is my long and deep- 
rooted affection for her. 

In housewife matters, of aptness to 
learn and activity to execute, she is 
eminently mistress: and during my 
absence in Nithsdale, she is regularly 
and constantly apprentice to my mother 
and sisters in their dairy and other 
rural business. 

The muses must not be offended 
when I tell them the concerns of 
my wife and family will in my mind 
always take the 'pas; but I assure them 
their ladyships will ever come next, in 
place. 

You are right that a bachelor state 
would have insured me more friends; 
but, from a cause you will easily guess, 
conscious peace in the enjoyment of 
my own mind, and unmistrusting con- 
fidence in approaching my God, would 
seldom have been of the number. 

I found a once much-loved and still 
much-loved female, literally and truly 
east out to the mercy of the naked ele- 



ments; but I enabled her to purchasi 
a shelter; — there is no sporting with a 
fellow-creature's happiness or misery. 
The most placid good nature and 
sweetness of disposition ; a warm heart, 
gratefully devoted with all its powers 
to love me; vigorous health and 
sprightly cheerfulnes, set off to the 
best advantage by a more than com- 
monly handsome figure; these, I think, 
in a woman, may make a good wife, 
though she should never have read a 
page but the Scriptures of the Old and 
the New Testament, nor have danced 
in a brighter assembly than a penny 
pay-wedding. 

R. B. 



No. CXXV. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, June 74, 1788. 

This is now the third day, my dear- 
est sir, that I have sojourned in these 
regions; and during these three days 
you have occupied more of my thoughts 
than in three weeks preceding; in Ayr- 
shire I have several variations of 
friendship's compass — here it points in- 
variably to the pole. My farm gives 
me a good many uncouth cares and 
anxieties, but I hate the language of 
complaint. Job, or some of his friends, 
says well — " Why should a living man 
complain ?" 

I have lately been much mortified 
with contemplating an unlucky imper- 
fection in the very framing and con- 
struction of my soul; uamely, a blun- 
dering inaccuracy of her olfactory or- 
gans in hitting the scent of craft or de- 
sign in my fellow-creatures. I do not 
mean any compliment to my ingenu- 
ousness, or toliint that the defect is in 
consequenceof the unsuspicious sim- 
plicity of conscious truth and lionour: 
I take it to be, in some way or other 
an imperfection in the mental sight 
or, metaphor apart, some modificatiou 
of dulness. In two or three small in- 
stances lately, I have been most shame- 
fully out. 

I have all along hitherto, in the war- 
fare of life, been bred to arms among 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



409 



the light-horse — the picket-guards of 
fancy; a kind of hussars and High- 
landers of the brain; but I am firmly re- 
solved to sell out of these giddy battal- 
ions, who have no ideas of a battle but 
fighting the foe, or of a siege but 
storming the town. Cost what it will, 
I am determined to buy in among the 
grave squadrons of heavy - armed 
thought, or the artillery corps of plod- 
ding contrivance. 

What books are you reading, or what 
is the subject of your thoughts, be- 
sides the great studies of your pro- 
fession? You said something about 
religion in your last. I don't exactly 
remember what it was, as the letter is 
in Ayrshire; but I thought it not only 
prettily said, but nobly thought. You 
will make a noble fellow if once you 
were married. I make no reservation 
of your being well married: you have 
so much sense, and knowledge of 
human nature, that, though you may 
not realise perhaps the ideas of 
romance, yet you will never be ill mar- 
ried. 

Were it not for the terrors of my 
ticklish situation, respecting provision 
for a family of children, I am decidedly 
of opinion that the step I have taken is 
vastly for my happiness. As it is, I 
look to the Excise scheme as a cer- 
tainty of maintenance; a maintenance ! 
— luxury to what either Mrs. Burns or 
I were born to. Adieu ! 

R. B. 



No. CXXVI. 
TO THE SAME. 

Mauchline, June 25, 1788. 
This letter, my dear sir, is only a 
business scrap. Mr. Miers, profile 
painter in your town, has executed a 
profile of Dr. Blacklock for me: dome 
the favour to call for it, and sit to him 
yourself for me, which put in the same 
size as the doctor's. The account of 
both profiles will be fifteen shillings, 
which I have given to James Connel, 
our Mauchline carrier, to pay you when 
you give him the parcel. You must 
not. my frieiid, refuse to §it» The 



time is short; when I sat to Mr. Miers, 
I am sure he did not exceed two min- 
utes. I propose hanging Lord Glen- 
cairn, the doctor, and you, in trio oveJ 
my new chimney piece that is to be. 
Adieu. 

R. B. 



No. CXXVII. 
TO THE SAME. 

Ellisland, June 30, 1788. 

Mt dear Sir, — I just now re- 
ceived your brief epistle; and, to take 
vengeance on your laziness, 1 have, you 
siee, taken a long sheet of writing- 
paper, and have begun at the top of the 
page, intending to scribble on to the 
very last corner. 

1 am vexed at that affair of the . . , 
but dare not enlarge on the subject un- 
til you send me your direction, as I 
suppose that will be altered on your 
late master and friend's death.* I am 
concerned for the old fellow's exit, only 
as I fear it may be to your disadvan- 
tage in any respect, for an old man's 
dying, except he have been a very- 
benevolent character, or in some par- 
ticular situation of life that the wel- 
fare of the poor or the helpless depen- 
ded on him I think it an event of the 
most trifling moment to the world. 
Man is naturally a kind, benevolent 
animal, but he is dropped into such a 
needy situation here in this vexatious 
world, and has such a whoreson, hun- 
gry, growling, multiplying pack of 
necessities, appetites, passions, and de- 
sires about him, ready to devour him 
for want of other food, that in fact he 
must lay aside his cares for others that 
he may look properly to himself. You 
have been imposed upon in paying Mr. 

Miers for the profile of a Mr. H . I 

did not mention it in my letter to you, 
nor did I ever give Mr. Miers any such 
order. I have no objection to lose the 
money, but I will not have any such 
profile in my possession. 

I desired the carrier to pay you, but 

as I mentioned only 15s. to him, I 

_^ 

* Mr, Samuel Miichelson, W, §. 



410 



BUBNS' WORKS. 



will rather enclose you a guinea note. 
I have it not, indeed, to spare here, as 
I am only a sojourner in a strange land 
in this place; but in a day or two 1 re- 
turn to MauchHne, and there I have 
the bank-notes through the house like 
salt permits. 

There is a great degree of folly in 
talking unnecessarily of one's private 
affairs. 1 have just now been inter-, 
rupted by one of my new neighbours, 
who has made himself absolutely con- 
temptible in my eyes by his silly, gar- 
rulous pruriency. I know it has been a 
fault of my own , too, but from this mo- 
ment I abjure it as I would the service 
of hell ! Your poets, spendthrifts, and 
other fools of that kidney, pretend, for- 
sooth, to crack their jokes on prudence; 
but 'tis a squalid vagabond glorying in 
his rags. Still, imprudence respecting 
money matters is much more pardon- 
able than imprudence respecting char- 
acter. I have no objection to prefer 
prodigality to avarice, in some few in- 
stances; but I appeal to your observa- 
tion, if you have not met, and often 
met, with the same disingenuousness, 
the same hollow-hearted insincerity, 
and disintegritive depravity of prin- 
ciple, in the hackneyed victims of pro- 
fusion, as in the unfeeling children of 
parsimony. I have every possible 
reverence for the much-talked-of world 
beyond the grave, and I wish that 
which piety believes and virtue de- 
serves may be all matter of fact. But 
in things belonging to and terminating 
in this present scene of existence, man 
has serious and interesting business on 
hand. Whether a man shall shake 
hands with welcome in the distin- 
guished elevation of respect, or shrink 
from contempt in the. abject corner of 
insignificance; whether he shall wan- 
ton under the tropic of plenty, at least 
enjoy liimself in the comfortable lati- 
tudes of easy convenience, or starve in 
the arctic circle of dreary poverty: 
whether he shall rise in the manly con 
3ciousness of a self -approving mind, or 
Bink beneath a galling load of regret 
and remorse — these are alternatives of 
the last moment. 

You §e^ liow I preach, You used 



occasionally to sermonise too; I wish 
you would, ^n charity, favour me with 
a sheet full in your own way. I ad- 
mire the close of a letter Lord Boling- 
brokc wrote to Dean Swift: — " Adieu, 
dear Swift ! with all thy faults I love 
thee entirely: make an effort to love 
me with all mine I" Humble servant, 
and all that trumpery, is now such a 
prostituted business that honest friend- 
ship, in her sincere way, must have re 
course to the primitive, simple — fare 
well ! 

R. B. 



No. CXXVIII. 

TO MR. GEORGE LOCKHART, 
MERCHANT, GLASGOW. 

Mauchline, July i8, 1788. 

My dear Sir, — I am just going 
for Nithsdale, else I would certainly 
have transcribed some of my rhym.ing 
things for you. The Misses Baillie I 
have seen in Edinburgh. "Fair and 
lovely are Thy works, Lord God Al- 
mighty ! Who would not praise Thee 
for these Thy gifts in Thy goodness to 
the sons of men !" It needed not your 
fine taste to admire them. I declare, 
one day I had the honour of dining at 
Mr. Baillie's, I was almost in the pre- 
dicament of the children of Israel, 
when they could not look on Moses' 
face for the glory that shone in it when 
he descended from Mount Sinai. 

I did once write a poetic address 
from the Falls of Bruar to his Grace 
of Athole, when I was in the High- 
lands. When you return to Scotland, 
let me know, and I will send such of ■ 
my pieces as please myself best. I re- 
turn to Mauchline in about ten days. 

My compliments to Mr. Purden. 1 
am in truth, but at present in haste, 
yours, 

R. B. 



No. CXXIX. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

My dear Htli-.— I shall say nothing 
to your mad present, you have so long 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



411 



and often been of important service to 
me; and I suppose you mean to go on 
conferring obligations until I sliall not 
be able to lift up my face before you. 
In tbe meantime, as Sir Roger de 
Coverley, because it happened to be a 
cold day in which he made his will, 
ordered his servants great-coats for 
mourning, so, because I have been 
this week plagued with an indigestion, 
I have sent you by the carrier a fine old 
ewe-milk cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the 
devil and all. It besets a man in 
every one of his senses. I lose my 
appetite at the sight of successful 
knavery, and sicken to loathing at the 
noise and nonsense of self-important 
folly. When the hollow-hearted 
wretch takes me by the hand, the 
feeling spoils my dinner; the proud 
man's wine so offends my palate that 
it chokes me in the gullet; and the 
pulvilised, feathered, pert coxcomb, is 
so disgustful m my nostril that my 
stomach turns. 

If ever you have any of these dis- 
agreeable sensations, let me prescribe 
for you patience and a bit of my 
cheese. I know that you are no nig- 
gard of good things among your 
friends, and some of them are in much 
need of a slice. There, in my eyes, is 
our friend Smellie; a man positively 
of the first abilities and greatest 
strength of mind, as well as one of the 
best hearts and keenest wits that I 
have ever met with; when you see 
him, as, alas! he too is smarting at the 
pinch of distressful circumstances, 
aggravated by the sneer of contumeli- 
ous greatness — a bit of my cheese alone 
will not cure him, but if you add a 
tankard of brown stout, and superadd 
a magnum of right Oporto, you will 
see his sorrows vanish like the morn- 
ing mist before the summer sun. 

Candlish, the earliest friend, except 
my only brother, that I have on earth, 
and one of the worthiest fellows that 
ever any man called by the name of 
friend, — if a luncheon of my cheese 
would help to rid him of some of his 
superabundant modesty, you would do 
well to give it to him. 



David,* Avith his Courant, comes, 
too, across my recollection, and I beg 
you will help him largely from the 
said ewe-milk cheese, to enable him to 
digest those bedaubing paragraphs 
with which he is eternally larding the 
lean characters of certain great men in 
a certain great town. I grant you the 
periods are very well turned; so, a 
fresh egg is a very good thing, but 
when thrown at a man in a pillory, it 
does not at all improve his figure, not 
to mention the irreparable loss of the 

My facetious friend Dunbar I would 
wish also to be a partaker, not to di- 
gest his spleen, for that he laughs off, 
but to digest his last night's wine at 
the last field-day of the Crochallan 
corps, f 

Among our common friends I must 
not forget one or the dearest of them 
— Cunningham. The brutality, inso- 
lence, and selfishness of a world un- 
worthy of having such a fellow as he 
is in it, I know, sticks in his stomach, 
and if you can help him to anything 
that will make him a little easier on 
that score, it will be very obliging. 

As to honest John Somerville, he is 
such a contented, happy man, that I 
know not what can annoy him, except, 
perhaps, he may not have got the bet- 
ter of a parcel of modest anecdotes 
which a certain poet gave him one 
night at supper, the last time the said 
poet was in town. 

Though I have mentioned so many 
men of law, I shall have nothing to do 
with them professedly — the faculty are 
beyond my prescription. As to their 
clients that is another thing; God 
knows they have much to digest ! 

The clergy I pass by; their pro- 
fundity of erudition, and their liber- 
ality of sentiment; their total want of 
pride, and their detestation of hypoc- 
risy, are so proverbially notorious as 
to place them far, far above either my 
praise or censure. 

1 was going to mention a man of 
worth, whom I have the honour to call 

* Mr. David Ramsay, printer of the .fit/»ar 
burgh Evening Courant. 

t A club of choice soirits. 



413 



BURNS' WORKS. 



friend, tlie Laird of Craigdarrock; but 
I have spoken to the landlord of the 
King's- Arms Inn here, to have at the 
next county meeting a large ewe-milk 
cheese on the table, for the benefit of 
the Dumfriesshire Whigs, to enable 
them to digest the Duke of Queens- 
berry's late political conduct. 

I have just this moment an oppor- 
tunity of a private hand to Edinburgh, 
as perhaps you would not digest double 
postage. 

R. B. 



No. CXXX. 

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF 

FINTRAY. 

Sm, — "WTien I had the honour of be- 
ing intreduced to you at Athole House, 
I did not think so soon of asking a 
favour of you. When Lear, in Shake- 
speare, asked old Kent, why he wished 
to be in his service, he answers, " Be- 
cause you have that in your face which 
I would fain call master. " For some 
such reason, sir, do I solicit your pat- 
ronage. You know, I daresay, of an 
application I lately made to your Board 
to be admitted an officer of Excise. I 
have, according to form, been ex- 
amined by a supervisor, and to-day I 
give in his certificate, with a request 
for an order for instructions. In this 
afEair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall 
but too much need a patronising friend. 
Propriety of conduct as a man, and 
fidelity and attention as an oflBcer. 
I dare engage for; but with any- 
thing like business, except manual 
labor, I am totally unacquainted. 

I had intended to have closed my 
late appearance on the stage of life in 
the character of a country farmer; but 
after discharging some filial and fra- 
ternal claims, I find I could only fight 
^or existence in that miserable manner 
f* Miich I have lived to see throw a ven- 
"V ^ Table parent into the jaws of a jail; 
e whence death, the poor man's last, and 
often best, friend, rescued him.* 



I know, sir, that to need your good- 
ness is to have a claim on it; may I, 
therefore, beg your patronage to for- 
ward me in this affair, till I be ap- 
pointed to a division; where, by tlic 
lielp of rigid economy, I will try to 
support that in'deperkdence so dear to 
my soul, but which has been too often 
so distant from my situation. 

R. B. 



* The filial and fraternal claims to which 
this letter refers were two hundred pounds 



No. CXXXI. 
TO WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. 

Ellisland, Aug. 1788. 

I HAVE not room, my dear friend, to 
answer all the particulars of your last 
kind letter. I shall be in Edinburgh, 
on some business very soon; and as I 
shall be two days, or perhaps three, in 
town, we shall discuss matters vivd 
voce. My knee, 1 believe, will never 
be entirely well; and an unlucky fall 
this winter has made if still worse. I 
well remember the circumstance you 
allude to, respecting Creech's opinion 
of Mr, Nicol; but as the first gentle 
man owes me still about fifty pounds, 
I dare not meddle in the affair. 

It gave me a very heavy heart to 
read such accounts of the consequence 
of your quarrel with that puritanic, 
rotten - hearted, hell - commissioned 
scoundrel, A . If, notwithstand- 
ing your unprecedented industry in 
public, and your irreproachable con- 
duct in private life, he still has you so 
much in his power, what ruin may he 
not bring on some others I could name ? 

Many and happy returns of seasons 
to you, with your dearest and worthiest 
friend, and the lovely little pledge of 
your happy union. May the great 
Author of life, and of every enjoyment 
that can render life delightful, make 
her that comfortable blessing to you 
both, which you so ardently wish for, 
and which, allow me to say, you so 
well deserve ! Glance over the forego« 



lent to his brother Gilbert to enable him to 
fight out the remainder of the lease of Moss- 
giel— and a considerable sum given to hia 
mother. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



413 



ing verses, and let me have your 
blots !* Adieu. 

R. B. 



No. CXXXII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, Aug. 2, 1788. 

Honoured Madam, — Your kind let- 
ter welcomed me, yesternight, to Ayr- 
shire. I am indeed seriously angry 
with you at the quantum of your luck- 
penny; liut, vexed and hurt as I was, 
I could not help laughing very heartily 
at the noble lord's apology for the 
missed napkin. 

I would write you from Nithsdale, 
and give you my direction there, but I 
have scarce an opportunity of calling 
at a post-office once in a fortnight. I 
am six miles from Dumfries, am 
scarcely ever in it myself, and as yet 
have little acqiiaintance in the neigh- 
bourhood. Besides, I am now very 
busy on my farm, building a dwelling- 
house; as at present I am almost an 
evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I 
have scarce " where to lay my head." 

There are some passages in your last 
that brought tears in my eyes. " The 
heart knoweth its own sorrows, and a 
stranger intermeddleth not therewith. " 
The repository of these " sorrows of 
the heart" is a kind of sanctum sanc- 
torum: and 'tis only a chosen friend, 
and that, too, at particular, sacred 
times, who dares enter into them: — 

" Heaven of tears, the bosom chords 
That nature finest strung." 

You will excuse this quotation for 
the sake of the author. Instead of en- 
tering on this subject farther, I shall 
transcribe you a few lines I wrote in a 
hermitage belonging to a gentleman in 
my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They 
are almost the only favours the Muses 
have conferred on me in that country, f 

Since I am in the wav of tran- 



* The verses enclosed were the lines writ- 
ten in Friars' Carse Hermitage. 

t See Lines writtea in Friars' Carse Her- 
»itage, p. 113. 



scribing, the following were the pro- 
duction of yesterday as I jogged 
through the wild hills of New Cum- 
nock. I intend inserting them, of 
something like them, iu an epistle 1 
am going to write to the gentleman on 
whose friendship my Excise hopes 
depend, Mr Graham of Fintray, one 
of the worthiest and most accomplished 
gentlemen, not only of this country, 
but, 1 will dare to say it, of this age. 
The following are just the first crude 
thoughts ' ' unhousel'd, unanointed, 
unanneal'd:" — * 

Here the muse left me. I am aslon • 
ished at what you tell me of Anthony'3 
writing me. I never received it. 
Poor fellow ! you vex me much by 
telling me that he is unfortunate. I 
shall be in Ayrshire in ten days from 
this date, I have just room for an old 
Roman farewell. 

R. B. 



No. CXXXHI. 
TO THE SAME. 

Mauchline, Aug. 10, 1788. 

My much-iionoubed Friend, — 
Yours of the 24th June is before me. 
I found it, as well as another valued 
friend — my wife — tvaiting to welcome 
me to Ayrshire ; I met both with the 
sincerest pleasure. 

When I write you, madam, I do not 
sit down to answer every paragraph 
of yours by echoing every sentiment, 
like the faithful Commons of Great 
Britain in Parliament assembled ans- 
wering a speech from the best of kings. 
I express myself in the fulness of my 
heart, and may, perhaps, be guilty of 
neglecting some of your kind inquiries; 
but not, from your very odd reason, 
that I do not read your letters. All 
your epistles for several months have 
cost me nothing, except a swelling 
throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt sen- 
timent of veneration. 

* See " First Epistle to Robert Graham," p 
169.—" Pity the tuneful muses* hapless 
strain." "^ 



414 



BTJUNS' WORits. 



When Mrs Burns, madam, first 
found herself "as women wish to be 
who love their lords," as I loved her 
nearly to distraction, we took steps for 
a private marriage. Her parents got 
the hint; and not only forbade me her 
company and their house, but, on my 
rumoured West Indian voyage, got a 
* warrant to put me in jail, till I should 
find security in my about-to be pater- 
nal relation. You know my lucky re- 
verse of fortune. On my eclatant re- 
turn to Mauchline, I was made very 
welcome to visit my girl. The usual 
consequences began to betray her; and, 
as I was at that time laid up a cripple 
in Edinburgh, she was turned, liter- 
ally turned out of doors, and I wrote 
to a friend to shelter her till my 
return, when our marriage was de- 
clared. Her happiness or misery was 
in my hands, and who could trifle with 
such a deposit? 

I can easily fancy a more agreeable 
companion for my journey of life; but, 
upon my honour, I have never seen 
the individual instance. 
" Circumstanced as I am, I could never 
have got a female partner for life who 
could have entered into my favourite 
studies, relished my favourite authors, 
&c. , without probably entailing on me 
at the same time expensive living, fan- 
tastic caprice, perhaps apish affecta- 
tion, with all the otHter blessed board- 
ing-school acquirements, which {par- 
donnez-moi madame) are sometimes to 
be found among females of the upper 
ranks, but almost universally pervade 
the misses of the would-be gentry. 

I like your way in your churchyard 
lucubrations. Thoughts that are the 
spontaneous result of accidental situa- 
tions, either respecting health, place, 
or company, have often a streng-th and 
always an originality that would in vain 
be looked for in fancied circumstances 
and studied paragraphs. Forme, I have 
often thought of keeping a letter, in pro- 
gression by me, to send you when the 
sheet was written out. Now I talk of 
sheets, I must tell you, my reason for 
writing to you on paper of this kind is 
my pruriency of writing to you at 
large. A page of post is on such a dis- 



social, narrow-minded scale, that 1 
cannot abide it; and double letters, at 
least in my miscellaneous reverie man- 
ner, are a monstrous tax in a close 
correspondence. 

R. B. 



No. CXXXIV. 

TO THE SAME. 

Ellisland, Aug. i6, 1788. 
I AM in a fine disposition, my hon- 
oured friend, to send you an elegiac 
epistle; and want only genius to make 
it quite Shenstonian: — 

" Why droops my heart with fancied woes 

forlorn ? [sky .?" 

Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry 

My increasing cares in this, as yet, 
strange country — gloomy conjectures 
in the dark vista of futurity — con- 
sciousness of my own inability for the 
struggle of the world — my broadened 
mark to misfortune in a wife and 
children; — I could indulge these reflec- 
tions till my humour should ferment 
into the most acid chagrin that would 
corrode the very thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feel- 
ings, I have sat down ;o write to you; 
as I declare upon ray soul I always 
find that the most sovereign balm for 
my wounded spirit. 

I was yesterday at Mr. Miller's to 
dinner, for the first time. My recep- 
tion was quite to my mind — from the 
lady of the house quite flattering. She 
sometimes hits on a couplet or two 
impromptu. She repeated one or two 
to the admiration of all present. My 
suffrage, as a professional man, was 
expected: I for once went agonizing 
over the belly of ray conscience. Par- 
don me, ye, my adored household 
gods, independence of spirit, and in- 
tegrity of soul ! In the course of con- 
versation, Johnson's Musical Museum, 
a collection of Scottish songs, with the 
music, was talked of. We got a song 
on the harpsichord, beginning, 

" Raving winds around her blowing." * 

■ ^ 

* See p. 209. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



415 



The air was much admired: the 
lady of the house asked me whose were 
the words, ' * Mine, madam — they are 
indeed my very best verses;" she took 
not the smallest notice of them ! The 
old Scottish proverb says well, "King's 
chaff is better than ither folks' corn. " 
I was going to make a New-Testament 
quotation about "casting pearls," but 
that would be too virulent, for the 
lady is actually a woman of sense and 
taste. 

After all that has been said pn the 
other side of the question, man is by 
no means a happy creature. I do not 
speak of the selected few, favoured by 
partial Heaven, whose souls are tuned 
to gladness amid riches and honours, 
and prudence and wisdom. I speak of 
the neglected many, whose nerves, 
whose sinews, whose days are sold to 
the minions of fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it 
I would transcribe for you a stanza of 
an old Scottish ballad, called, ' ' The 
Life and Age of Man;" beginning 
thus: — 

** 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year 
Of God and fifty-three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 
As writings testifie." 

I had an old granduncle with whom 
my mother lived a while in her girlish 
years; the good old man, for such he 
was, was long blind ere he died, during 
which time his highest enjoyment was 
to sit down and cry, while my mother 
■would sing the simple old song of ' 'The 
Life and Age of Man." 

It is this way of thinking, it is these 
melancholy truths, that make religion 
so precious to the poor, miserable 
children of men. If it is a mere phan- 
tom, existing only in the heated im- 
agination of enthusiasm, 

" What truth on earth so precious as the lie !" 

My idle reasonings sometimes make 
me a little sceptical, but the necessi- 
ties of my heart always give the cold 
philosophisings the lie. Who looks for 
the heart weaned from earth; the soul 
affianced to her God; the correspond- 
ence fixed with Heaven; the pious sup- 
plicj^tioa £^n4 devout tlianks^ivin^, 



constant as the vicissitudes of even and 
morn; who thinks to meet with these 
in the court, the palace, in the glare of 
public life? No: to find them in theil 
precious importance and divine effica- 
cy, we must search among the obscure 
recesses of disappointment, affliction, 
poverty, and distress. 

I am sure, dear madam, you are now 
more than pleased with the length of 
my letters. I return to Ayrshire the 
middle of next week: and it quickens 
my pace to think that there will be a 
letter from you waiting me there. I 
must be here again very soon for my 
harvest. 

R. B. 



No. CXXXV. 

TO MR. BEUGO, ENGRAVER, 
EDINBURGH. 

Ellisland, Sept. 9, 1788. 

My dear Sm,— There is not in Edin- 
burgh above the number of the graces 
whose letters would have given me so 
much pleasure as yours of the 3d in- 
stant, which only reached me yester- 
night. 

I am here on my farm, busy with 
my harvest; but for all that most 
pleasurable part of life called social 
COMMUNICATION, I am here at the 
very elbow of existence. The only 
things that are to be found in this 
country, in any degree of perfection, 
are stupidity and canting. Prose, they 
only know in graces, prayers, &c., an(J 
the value of these they estimate aa 
they do their plaiding webs — by th« 
ell ! As for the Muses, they have as 
much idea of a rhinoceros as of a poet. 
For my old capricious, but good-na- 
tured hussy of a muse — 

By banks of Nith I sat and wept 

When Coila I thought on, 
In midst thereof I hung my harp 

The wiilow-trees upon. 

I am generally about half my time m 
Ayrshire with my " darling Jean,"an<\ 
then I, at lucid intervals, throw m;.' 
horny fist across my becobwebbed lyre, 
muQh iu the sawQ aj^uGer as aft q14 



416 



BURNS' WORKS. 



wife throws her hand across the spokes 
of her spinning-wheel. 

I will send the * ' Fortunate Shep- 
herdess," as soon as I return to Ayr- 
shire, for there I keep it with otlier 
precious treasure. 1 shall send it by a 
careful hand, as I would not for any- 
thing it should be mislaid or lost. I 
4I0 not wish to serve you from any 
fcenevolence, or other grave Christian 
virtue; 'tis purely a selfish gratification 
of my own feelings whenever I think 
of you. 

If your better functions, would give 
you leisure to write me, I should be 
extremely happy; that is to say, if you 
neither keep nor look for a regular 
correspondence. I hate the idea of 
being obliged to write a letter. I some- 
times write a friend twice a week, at 
other times once a quarter. 

I am exceedingly pleased with your 
fancy in making the author you men- 
tion place a map of Iceland instead of 
liis portrait before his works: 'twas a 
a glorious idea. 

Could you conveniently do me one 
thing ? — whenever you finish any head 
I should like to have a proof copy of 
it. I might tell you a long story 
about your fine genius: but as what 
everybody knows cannot have escaped 
you, I shall not say one syllable about 
it. 

R. B. 



No. CXXXVI. 
TO MISS CHALMERS, EDIN- 
BURGH. 

Ellisland, (near Dumfries,) Sept. 16, 1788. 

Where are you ? and how are you ? 
and is Lady Mackenzie recovering her 
health ? for I have had but one solitary 
letter from you. I will not think you 
have forgot me, madam; and for my 
part, 

" When thee, Jerusalem, I forget. 
Skill part from my right hand !" 

" My heart is not of that rock; nor 
my soul careless as that sea." I do 
not make my progress among mankind 
ISJ^ a IjQWl does 9,mou§ its fellows- 



roiling through the crowd without 
bearing away any mark or impression, 
except where they hit in hostile col- 
lision. 

I am here driven in with my harvest 
folks by bad weather; and as you and 
your sister once did me the honour of 
interesting yourselves much a Vegard 
de moi, I sit down to beg the continu- 
ation of your goodness. I can truly 
say that, all the exterior of life apart, 
I never saw two whose esteem flattered 
the nobler feelings of my soul — I will 
not say more, but so much, as Lady 
Mackenzie and Miss Chalmers. When 
I think of you — hearts the best, minds 
the noblest of human kind — unfortu-' 
nate even in the shades of life — when I 
think I have met with you, and have 
lived more of real life with you in eight 
days than I can do with almost any- 
body I meet with in eiglit years — when 
I think on the improbability of meet- 
ing you in this world again — I could 
sit down and cry like a child ! If ever 
you honoured me with a place in your 
esteem, I trust I can now plead more 
desert. I am secure against that crush- 
ing grip of iron poverty, which, alas! is 
less or more fatal to the native worth 
and purity of, I fear, the noblest souls; 
and a late important step in my life 
has kindly taken me out of the way of 
those ungrateful iniquities, which, 
however overlooked in fashionable li- 
cence, or varnished in fashionable 
phrase, are indeed but lighter and 
deeper shades of yillak y. 

Shortty after my last return to Ay- 
rshire, 1 married "my Jean." This 
was not in consequence of the attach- 
ment of romance, perhaps; but I had a 
long and much loved fellow-creature's 
happiness or misery in my determina- 
tion, and I durst not trifle with so im- 
portant a deposit. Nor have I any 
cause to repent it. If I have not got 
polite tattle, modish manners, and 
fashionable dress, I am not sickened 
and disgusted with the multiform 
curse of boarding-school affectation; 
and I have got the handsomest figure, 
the sweetest temper, the soundest con- 
stitution, and the kindest heart in the 
countj^, Mr^, BurR§ believes, a^ firm- 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



41"? 



ly as her creed, that I am le plus bel 
esprit, et le plus hoiinete hoimne in the 
universe; although she scarcely ever in 
her life, except the Scriptures of the 
Old and the New Testament, and the 
Psalms of David in metre, spent five 
minutes together on either prose or 
verse. I must except also from this 
last a certain late publication of Scots 
poems, which she has perused very de- 
voutly; and all the ballads in the coun- 
try, as she has (O the partial lover ! 
you will cry) the finest ' ' wood- note 
wild " I ever heard. I am the more 
particular in this lady's character, as I 
know she will henceforth have the 
honour of a share in your best wishes. 
She is still at Mauchline, as I am build- 
ing my house; for this hovel that I 
ghelter in while occasionally here is 
pervious to every blast that blows and 
every shower that falls; and I am only 
preserved from being chilled to death 
by being suffocated with smoke. I do 
not find my farm that pennyworth I 
was taught to expect, but I believe, in 
time, it may be a saving bargain. You 
will be pleased to hear that I have 
laid aside idle eclat, and bind every 
day after my reapers. 

To save me from that horrid situa- 
tion of at any time going down, in a 
losing bargain of a farm, to misery, I 
have taken my excise instructions, and 
have my commision in my pocket for 
any emergency of fortune. If I could 
set all before your view, whatever dis- 
respect you, in common with the world, 
have for this business, I know you 
would approve of my idea. 

I will make no apology, dear madam, 
for this egotistic detail; I know you 
and your sister will be interested in 
every circumstance of it. What signify 
the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or 
the ideal trumpery of greatness! When 
fellow-partakers of the same nature 
fear the same God, have the same 
benevolence of heart, the same noble- 
ness of soul, the same detestation at 
everything dishonest, and the same 
scorn of everything unworthy — if they 
are not in the dependence of absolute 
beggary, in the name of common sense 
ar^ they- not ec^uals ? And if the bias, 



the instinctive bias of their souls run 
the same way, may they not be 
FRIENDS ? 

When I may have an opportunity of 
sending you this. Heaven only knowM. 
Shenstone says, "When one is cou 
fined idle within doors by bad weather, 
the best antidote against ennui is to 
read the letters of, or write to, one' i 
friends;" in that case then, if tl.o 
weather continues thus, I may scraw 1 
half a quire. 

I very lately — to wit, since harvest 
began — wrote a poem, not in imitation, 
but in the manner, of Pope's "Moral 
Epistles." It is only a short essay, 
just to try the strength of my muse's 
pinion in that way. I will send you a 
copy of it, when once I have heard 
from you. I have likewise been laying 
the foundation of some pretty large 
poetic works: how the superstructure 
will come on, I leave to that great 
maker and marrer of projects — Time. 
Johnson's collection of Scots songs is 
going on in the third volume; and of 
consequence finds me a consumpt for a 
great deal of idle metre. One of the 
most tolerable things I have done in 
that way is two stanzas I made to an 
air a musical gentleman of mv ac- 
quaintance composed for the anniver- 
sary of his wedding-day, which hap- 
pens on the 7th of November, Take 
it as follows: — 

The day returns — mv bosom burns — 
The blissful day wetwadid meet, &c.* 

I shall give over this letter for 
shame. If I should be seized with a 
scribbling fit before this goes away, I 
shall make it another letter; and then 
you may allow your patience a week's 
respite between the two. I have not 
room for more than the old, kind, 
hearty farewell i 

To make some amends mes cheres 
mesdames, for dragging you on to this 
second sheet; and to relieve a little 
the tiresomeness of my unstudied and 
uncorrectible prose, I shall tran- 
scribe you some of my late poetic bag- 
atelles; though I have these eight or 

♦ See p. 2<9. 



418 



BURNS' WORKS. 



ten months done very little tliat way. 
One day, in a hermitage on the banks 
of Nith, belonging to a gentleman in 
my neighbourhood, who is so good as 
give me a key at pleasure, I wrote as 
follows; supposing myself the seques- 
tered, venerable inhabitant of the 
lonely mansion: — 

LINES WRITTEN IN FRIARS' CARSE HERMITAGE. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, &.C.* 

R. B. 



No. CXXXVII. 
TO MR. MORRISON, MAUCHLINE.f 

Ellisland, Sept. 22, 1788. 

My dear Sir, — Neccessity obliges 
me to go into my new house even before 
it be plastered. I will inhabit the one 
end until the other is finished. About 
three weeks more, I think, will at far- 
thest be my time, beyond which I 
cannot stay in this present house. If 
ever you wished to deserve the bless- 
ing of him that was ready to perish; 
if ever you were in a situation that a 
little kindness would have rescued you 
from many evils; if ever you hope to 
find rest in future states of untried 
being — get these matters of mine 
ready. My servant vdll be out in the 
beginning of next week for the clock. 
My compliments to Mrs. Morrison. — I 
am, after all my tribulation, dear sir, 
yours, 

R. B. 



No. CXXXVIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP OF DUNLOP. 

MAUCHLINE,Sept. 27, 1788. 

I HAVE received twins, dear madam, 
more than once; but scarcely ever 
with more pleasure than when I re- 
ceived yours of the 12th instant. To 
make rnyself understood; I had written 
to Mr. Graham, enclosing my poem 

* See p. 113. 
t Mr. Morrison was a Mauchlme cabinet- 
maker. He made the furniture required for 
tbe new hoys^ at gllislc^nd, 



addressed to him, and the same post ' 
which favoured me with yours brought 
me an answer from him. It was date d 
tlie very day he had received mine; 
and I am quite at a loss to say whethti- 
it was most polite or kind. 

Your criticisms, my honoured bene- 
factress, are truly the work of a friend 
They are not the blasting depredatioi 
of a canker-toothed, caterpillar critii 
nor are they the fair statement of co; 
impartiality, balancing with unfeeiiii 
exactitude the pro and con of an 
author's merits; they are the judicious 
observations of animated friendship, 
selecting the beauties of the piece. I 
have just arrived from Nithsdale, and 
will be here a fortnight. I was on 
horseback this morning by three 
o'clock; for between my wife and my 
farm is just forty-six miles. As I jog- 
ged on in the dark, I was taken with 
a poetic fit, as follows: — 

MRS. FERGUSSON OF CRAIGDARROCH's LAMENTA- 
TION FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON ; 

A n uncommonly promising youth of eighteen 

or nineteen years 0/ age. 

Fate g-ave the word— the arrow sped 

And pierced my darling's heart, h.c* 

You will not send me your poetic 
rambles, but, you see, I am no niggard 
of mine. I am sure your impromptus 
give me double pleasure; what falls 
from your pen can neither be unenter- 
taining in itself nor indifEerent to 
me. 

The one fault you found is just ; but 
I cannot please myself in an emenda- 
tion. 

What a life of solicitude is the life 
of a parent ! You interested me much 
in your young couple. 

i would not take my folio paper for 
this epistle, and now I repent it. I 
am so jaded with my dirty long jour- 
ney that I was afraid to drawl into the 
essence of dulness with anything 
larger than a quarto, and so I must 
leave out another rhyme of this 
morning's manufacture. 

I will pay the sapientipotent George, 
most cheerfully, to hear from you ere 
I leave Avrshire. 

R. B. 

* Sec D. 114, 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



419 



No. CXXXIX, 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Mauchline, Oct. I, 1788. 
I HAVE been here in this country 
about three days, and all that time my 
chief reading has been the ' ' Address 
to Lochlomond" you were so obliging 
as to send to me.* Were I empan- 
nelled one of the author's jury, to de- 
termine his criminality respecting the 
sin of poesy, my verdict should be, 
" Guilty ! — a poet of nature's making !" 
It is an excellent method for improve- 
ment, and what I believe every poet 
does, to place some favourite classic 
author in his own walks of study and 
composition before him as a model. 
Though your author had not men- 
tioned the name, I could have, at half 
a glance, guessed his model to be 
Thomson. Will my brother-poet for- 
give me if I venture to hint that his 
imitation of that immortal bard is in 
two or three places rather more servile 
than such a genius as his required ! 
—e.g., 

"To soothe the madd'ning passions all to 
peace." — Address. 

"To soothe the throbbing passions into 
peace." — Thomson. 

I think the " Address" is in simpli- 
city, harmony, and elegance of versifi- 
cation, fully equal to the "Seasons." 
Like Thomson, too, he has looked 
into nature for himself: you meet 
with no copied description. One par- 
ticular criticism I made at first reading; 
in no one instance has he said too much. 
He never fiags in his progress, but, 
like a true poet of nature's making, 
kindles in his course. His beginning 
is simple and modest, as if distrustful 
of the strength of his pinion; only, I 
do not altogether like — 

"Truth, 
The soul of every song that's nobly great." 

Fiction is the soul of many a song 
that is nobly great. Perhaps I am 
wrong; this may be but a prose criti- 
cism. Is not the phrase, in line 7, page 
6, " Great lake," too much vulgarized 

* A poem written by one of the masters of 
the Edinburgh High School, 



by every-day language for so sublime 
a poem V 

" Great mass of waters, theme for nobler 
song," 

is perhaps no emendation. His enu- 
meration of a comparison with other 
lakes is at once harmonious and poetic. 
Every reader's ideas must sweep the 

" Winding margin of a hundred miles." 

The perspective that follows moun- 
tains blue — the imprisoned billows 
beating in vain — the wooded isles — 
the digression on the yew-tree — " Ben- 
lomond's lofty, cloud-en velop'd head,'* 
&c., are beautiful. A thunder-storm 
is a subject which has often been tried, 
yet our poet in his grand picture has 
interjected a circumstance, so far as I 
know, entirely original: — 

" The gloom 
Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving 

fire." 

In his preface to the storm, ** the 
glens how dark between," is noble 
Highland landscape! The "rain 
ploughing the red mould," too, is 
beautifully fancied. " Benlomond's 
lofty, pathless top," is a good expres- 
sion ; and the surrounding view from it 
is truly great: the 

" Silver mist, 
Beneath the beaming sun," 

is well described; and here he has con- 
trived to enliven his poem with a little 
of that passion which bids fair, I think, 
to usurp the modern muses altogether. 
I know not how far this episode is a 
beauty upon the whole, but the 
swain's wish to carry " some faint idea 
of the vision bright," to entertain her 
"partial listening ear," is a pretty 
thought. But in my opinion the most 
beautiful passages in the whole poem 
are the fowls crowding, in wintry 
frosts, to Lochlomond's " hospitable 
flood;" their wheeling round, their 
lighting, mixing, diving, &c. ; and the 
glorious description of the sportsman. 
This last is equal to anything in the 
" Seasons." The idea of " the floating 
tribes distant seen, far glistering to 
the moon," provoking his eye as he is 
obliged to leave them, is a noble ray of 
poetic gcnLis. "The howling winds/* 



420 



BURNS' WORKS. 



the "hideous roar" of " the white cas- 
cades," are all in the same style. 

I forget that while 1 am thus hold- 
ing forth with the heedless warmth of 
an enthusiast, I am perhaps tiring you 
with nonsense. I must, however, men- 
tion that the last verse of the sixteenth 
page is one of the most elegant compli- 
ments 1 have ever seen. i must like- 
wise notice that beautiful paragraph 
beginning " The gleaming lake," &c. 
I dare not go into the particular beau- 
ties of the two last paragraphs, but 
they are admirably line, and truly 
Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this 
lengthened scrawl — I had no idea of it 
when I began. I should like to know 
who the author is; but, whoever he 
be, please present him with my grate- 
ful thanks for the entertainment he 
has-afEorded me, 

A friend of mine desired me to com- 
mission for him two books, ' ' Letters 
on the Religion Essential to Man," a 
book you sent me before; and "The 
World Unmasked; or^ The Philoso- 
pher the Greatest Cheat." Send me 
them by the first opportunity. The 
Bible you sent me is truly elegant; I 
only wish it had been in two volumes. 

R. B. 



No. CXL. 
TO THE EDITOR OF THE STAR. 

Nov. 8, 1788. 

Sir, — Notwithstanding the oppro- 
brious epithets with which some of 
our philosophers and gloomy secta- 
rians have branded our nature — the 
principle of universal selfishness, the 
proneness to all evil, they have given 
us — still, the detestation in which in- 
humanity to the distressed, or inso- 
lence to the fallen, are held by all 
mankind, shows that they are not 
natives of the human heart. Even the 
unhappy partner of our kind who is 
undone — the bitter consequence of his 
follies or his crimes — who but sympa- 
thises with the miseries of tliis ruined 
profligate brother? We forget the in- 
juries, and feel for the man. 



I went last Wednesday to my parish 
church, most cordially to join in- grate- 
ful acknowledgment to the Author 
OF ALL Good for the consequent 
blessings of the glorious revolution. 
To that auspicious event we owe no 
less than our liberties, civil and relig- 
ious; to it we are lil^ewise indebted 
for the present royal family, the rul- 
ing features of whose administration 
have ever been mildness to the subject, 
and tenderness of his rights. 

Bred and educated in revolution 
principles, the principles of reason 
and common sense, it could not be any 
silly political prejudice which made 
my heart revolt at the harsh, abusive 
manner in which the reverend gentle- 
man mentioned the house of Stuart, 
and which, I am afraid, was too much 
the language of the day. We may 
rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance 
from past evils, without cruelly raking 
up the ashes of those whose misfor- 
tune it was, perhaps, as much as their 
crime, to be the authors of those evils; 
and we may bless God for all His 
goodness to us as a nation, without at 
the same time cursing a few ruined, 
powerless exiles, who only harboured 
ideas and made attempts that most of 
us would have done, had we been in 
their situation. 

"The bloody and tyrannical house 
of Stuart," may be said with pro- 
priety and justice, when com,pared 
with the present royal family, and the 
sentiments of our days; but is there 
no allowance to be made for the man- 
ners of the times ? Were the royal con- 
temporaries of the Stuarts more atten- 
tive to their subjects' rights ? Might 
not the epithets of ' ' bloody and tyran- 
nical" be," with at least equal justice, 
applied to the house of Tudor, of 
York, or any other of their predeces- 
sors? 

The simple state of the case, sir, 
seems to be this : — at that period the 
science of government, the knowledge 
of the true relation between king and 
subject, was, like other sciences and 
other knowledge, just in its infancy, 
emerging from dark ages of ignorance 
and barbarity. 



GENERAL COliRESPONDENCE. 



421 



The Stuarts only contended for pre- 
rogatives wliicli they knew their pre- 
decessors enjoyed, and which they saw 
their contemporaries enjoying; but 
these prerogatives were inimical to tlie 
happiness of a nation and the rights of 
subjects. 

In this contebt between prince and 
people, the consequence of that light 
of science which had lately dawned 
over Europe, the monarch of France, 
for example, was victorious over the 
struggling liberties of his people: 
with us, luckily, the monarch failed, 
and his unwarrantable pretensions fell 
a sacrifice to our rights and happiness. 
Whether it was owing to the wisdom 
of leading individuals, or to the just- 
ling of parties, I cannot pretend to de- 
termine; but likewise, happily for us, 
the kingly power was shifted into an- 
other branch of the family, who, as 
they owed the throne solely to the call 
of a free people, could claim nothing 
inconsistent with the covenanted 
terms which placed them there. 

The Stuarts have been condemned 
and laughed at for the folly and im- 
practicability of their attempts in 1715 
and 1745. That they failed, I bless 
God; but cannot join in the ridicule 
against them. Who does not know 
that the abilities or defects of leaders 
and commanders are often hidden un- 
til put to the touchstone of exigency; 
and that there is a caprice of fortune, 
an omnipotence in particular accidents 
and conjunctures of circumstances, 
which exalt us as heroes, or brand us 
as madmen, just as they are for or 
against us? 

Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, 
weali, inconsistent being; who would 
believe, sir, that in this our Augustan 
age of liberality and refinement, while 
we seem so justly sensible and jealous 
of our rights and liberties, and anima- 
ted with such indignation against the 
very memory of those who would 
have subverted them, that a certain 
people under our national protection 
ghould complain, not against our mon- 
arch and a few favourite advisers, but 
against our whole legislative 
BODY, for similar oppression, and al- 



most in the very same terms, as our 
forefathers did of the house of Stuart! 
I will not, I cannot, enter into the 
merits of the cause; but I daresay the 
American Congress, in 1776, will be 
allowed to be as able and as enlight- 
ened as the English Convention was 
in 1688; and that their posterity will 
celebrate the centenary of their deliver- 
ance from us as duly and sincerely as 
we do ours from the oppressive meaf- 
sures of the wrong-headed house of 
Stuart, 

To conclude, sir; let every man who 
has a tear for the many miseries inci- 
dent to humanity, feel for a family 
illustrious as any in Europe, and un- 
fortunate beyond historic precedent; 
and let every Briton (and particularly 
every Scotsman) who ever looked with 
reverential pity on the dotage of a 
parent, cast a veil over the fatal mis- 
takes of the kings of his forefathers. 

R.B. 



No. CXLI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM 
MAINS. 
Mauchline, Nov. 13, 1788. 

Madam, — I had the very great 
pleasure of dining at Dunlop yester- 
day. Men are said to flatter women 
because they are weak; if it is so, 
poets must be weaker still; for Misses 

R and K , and Miss G. M'K , 

with their flattering attentions and art- 
ful compliments, absolutely turned 
my head. I own they did not lard me 
over as many a poet does his patron, 
but they so intoxicated me with their 
sly insinuations and delicate inuendos 
of compliment, that, if it had not been 
for a lucky recollection now much 
additional weight and lustre your 
good opinion and friendship must give 
me in that circle, I had certainly 
looked upon myself as a person of m> 
small consequence, I dare not say 
one word how much I M-^as charmed 
with the major's friendly welcome, 
elegant manner, and acute remark, 
lest I should be thought to balance 
my orientalisms of applause over 



m 



BURNS' WORKS. 



against the finest quey (lieifer) in Ayr- 
shire, which he made me a present of 
to help and adorn my farming stock. 
As it was on hallo wday, I am deter- 
mined annually as that day returns, 
to decorate her horns with an ode of 
gratitude to the family of Dunlop. 

So soon as I know of your arrival at 
Dunlop, I will take the first con- 
venience to dedicate a day, or perhaps 
two, to you and friendship, under the 
guarantee of the major's hospitality. 
There will soon be threescore and ten 
miles of permanent distance between 
us; and now that your friendship and 
friendly correspondence is entwisted 
with the heart-strings of my enjoy- 
ment of life, I must indulge myself in 
a happy day of "the feast of reason 
and the flow of soul." 

R. B. 



No. CXLII. 

TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, 
ENGRAVER. 

Mauchline, Nov. 15, 1788. 

My dear Sm, — I have sent you 
two more songs. If you have got any 
tunes, or anything to correct, please 
send them by return of the carrier. 

I can easily see, my dear friend, that 
you will very probably have four vol- 
umes. Perhaps you may not find your 
account lucratively in this business; 
but you are a patriot for the music of 
your country; and I am certain poster- 
ity will look on .themselves as highly 
indebted to your public spirit. Be not 
in a hurry; let us go on correctly, and 
your name shall be immortal. 

I am preparing a flaming preface for 
your third volume. I see every day 
new musical publications advertised; 
but what are they? Gaudy, hunted 
butterflies of a day, and then vanish 
for ever : but your work will outlive 
the momentary neglects of idle fashion, 
and defy the teeth of time. 

Have you never a fair goddess that 
leads you a wild-goose chase of amor- 
ous devotion ? Let me know a few of 
her qualities, such as whether she be 



rather black, or fair; plump, or thin; 
sliort, or tall, &c. ; and choose your air, 
and 1 shall task my muse to celebrat© 
her. 

R. B. 



No. CXLIII. 

TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Mauchline, Nov. 15, 1788. 

Reverend and dear Sir, — As I 
hear nothing of your motions, but that 
you are, or were, out of town, I do not 
know where this may find you, or 
whether it will find you at all. I 
wrote you a long letter, dated from the 
land of matrimony, in June; but either 
it had not found you, or, what I dread 
more, it found you or Mrs. Blacklock in 
too precarious a state of health and 
spirits to take notice of an idle packet. 

I have done many little things for 
Johnson since I had the pleasure of 
seeing you; and have finished one 
piece in the way of Pope's "Moral 
Epistles;" but, from your . silence, I 
have everything to fear, so I have only 
sent you two melancholy things, which 
I tremble lest they should too well suit 
the tone of your present feelings. 

In a fortnight I move, bag and bag 
gage, to Nithsdale ; till then my direc- 
tion is at this place ; after that period 
it will be at Ellisland, near Dumfries. 
It would extremely oblige me, were it 
but half a line to let me know how you 
are and where you are. Can I be in- 
different to the fate of a man to whom 
I owe so much ? A man whom I not 
only esteem, but venerate. 

My warmest good wishes and most 
respectful compliments to Mrs. Black- 
lock, and Miss Johnston, if she is with 
you. 

I cannot conclude without telling 
you that I am more and more pleased 
with the step I took respecting "my 
Jean." Two things, from my happy 
experience, I set down as apophthegms 
in life — A wife's head is immaterial 
compared with her heart ; and — "Vir- 
tue's (for wisdom what poet pretends 
to it ?) ways are ways of pleasantness, 
and all her paths are peace." Adieu I 

l^f B. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



[Here follow " Themotlier's lament 
for the loss of lier son," and the song 
beginning " The lazy mist hangs from 
the brow of the hill." See pp.114, 
213.] 



No. CXLIV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Dec. 17, 1788. 

Mt dear honoured Friend,— 
Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have 
just read, makes me very unhappy. 
"Almost blind and wholly deaf," is 
melancholy news of human nature; 
but when told of a much-loved and 
honoured friend they carry misery in 
the sound. Goodness on your part 
and gratitude on mine began a tie 
which has gradually entwinfed itself 
among the dearest chords of my bosom, 
and I tremble at the omens of your 
late and present ailing habit and shat- 
tered health. You miscalculate mat- 
ters widely when you forbid my wait- 
ing on you, lest it should hurt my 
worldly concerns. My small scale of 
farming is exceedingly more simple 
and easy than what you have lately 
seen at Moreham Mains, But be that 
as it may, the heart of the man and 
the fancy of the poet are the two grand 
considerations for which I live; if miry 
ridges and dirty dunghills are to en- 
gross the best part of the functions of 
my soul immortal, I had better been a 
rook or a magpipe at once, and then I 
should not have been plagued with 
any ideas superior to breaking of clods 
and picking up grubs; not to mention 
barn-door cocks or mallards, creatures 
with which I could almost exchange 
Jives at any time. If you continue so 
deaf, I am afraid a visit will be no great 
pleasure to either of us; but if I hear 
you have got so well again as to be 
able to relish conversation, look you to 
it, madam, for I will make my threat- 
enings good. I am to be at the New- 
year-day fair of Ayr; and, by all that 
is sacred in the world, friend, I will 
come and see you. 

Your meeting, which you so well 
4e9cribe, with your old school-fellow 



and friend, was truly interesting. Out 
upon the ways of the world! — They 
spoil these "social offsprings of the 
heart." Two veterans of the "men of 
the world " would have met with little 
more heart- workings than two old 
hacks worn out on the road. Apropos, 
is not the Scotch phrase, ' ' auld lang 
syne," exceedingly expressive ? There 
is an old song and tune which have 
often thrilled through my soul. You 
know I am an enthusist in old Scotch 
songs. I shall give you the verses on the 
other sheet, 

" Should auld acquaintance be forgot ?" * 

as I suppose Mr. Ker will save you 
the postage. 

Light be the turf on the breast of 
the Heaven-inspired poet who com- 
posed this glorious fragment! There 
is more of the lire of native genius in 
it than half-a-dozen of modern En- 
glish Bacchanalians! Now I am on 
my hobby-horse, I cannot help insert- 
ing two other old stanzas, which 
please me mightily: — 

" Go fetch to me a pint of wine." + 
R. B. 



No. CXLV. 

TO MISS DAVIES. 

Dec. 1788. 

Madam, — I understand my very 
worthy neighbour, Mr.' Riddel, has in. 
formed you that I have made you the 
subject of some verses. There is some- 
thing so provoking in the idea of being 
the burthen of a ballad that I do not 
think Job, or Moses, though such pat- 
terns of patience and meekness, could 
have resisted the curiosity to know 
what that ballad was: so my worthy 
friend has done me a mischief, which 
I daresay he never intended; and re. 
duced me to the unfo rtunate alterna- 
tive of leaving your curiosity ungrati- 
fied, or else disgusting you with foolish 
verses, the unfinished production of a 
random moment, and never meant to 



* See p. 213. 



t See p. 214. 



424 



BURNS' WORKS. 



have met your ear. I have heard or 
read somewhere of a gentleman who 
had some genius, much eccentricity, 
and very considerable dexterity with 
his pencil. In the accidental group of 
life into which one is thrown, wherever 
this gentleman met with a character- in 
a more than ordinary degree congenial 
to his heart, he used to steal a sketch 
of the face, merely, he said, as 
a nota bene, to point out the agreeable 
recollection to his memory. What 
this gentleman's pencil was to him, 
my muse is to me; and the verses I do 
myself the honour to send you are a 
memento exactly of the same kind that 
he indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastid- 
iousness of my caprice than the delica- 
cy of my taste; but I am so often tired, 
disgusted, and hurt with the insipidity, 
affectation, and pride of mankind, that 
when I meet with a person ' ' after my 
own heart," I positively feel what an or- 
thodox Protestant would call a species 
of idolatry, which acts on my fancy like 
inspiration; and I can no more resist 
rhyming, on the impulse, than an 
Eolian harp can refuse its tones to the 
streaming air. A distich or two 
would be the consequence, though the 
object which hit my fancy were gray- 
bearded age; but where my theme is 
youth and beauty, a young lady whose 
personal charms, wit, and sentiment 
are equally striking and unaffected — 
by heavens! though I had lived three- 
score years a married man, and three- 
score years before I was a married man, 
my imagination would hallow the very 
idea: and I am truly sorry that the en- 
closed stanzas have done such poor 
justice to such a subject.* R. B. 



No. CXLVI. 
TO MR. JOHN TENNANT.f 

Dec. 22, 1788. 

I YESTERDAY tried my cask of whis- 
ky for the first time, and I assure you 



* See p. 230. 
t Mr. Tennant «f Ayr, one of the poet's 
early friends. 



it does you great credit. It will bear 
five waters, strong; or six, ordinary 
toddy. The whisky of this country is 
a most rascally liquor; and, by conse- 
quence, only drunk by the most ras- 
cally part of the inhabitants. I am 
persuaded, if you once get a footing 
here, you might do a great deal of 
business, in the way of consumpt; and 
should you commence distiller again, 
this is the native barley country. I 
am ignorant if, in your present way of 
dealing, you would think it worth your 
while to extend your business so far as 
this country side. I write you this on the 
account of an accident, which I must 
take the merit of having partly de- 
signed to a neighbour of mine, a John 
Currie, miller in Carse-mill — a man, 
who is, in a word, a "very'* good 
man, even for a £500 bargain. He 
and his wife were in my house the 
time I broke open the cask. They 
keep a country public-house and sell a 
great deal of foreign spirits, but all 
along thought that whisky would 
have degraded their house. They 
were perfectly astonished at my whisky, 
both for its taste and strength; and 
by their desire I write you to know i f 
you could supply them with liquor of 
an equal quality and what price. 
Please write me by first post, and di- 
rect to me at Ellisland, near Dumfries. 
If you could take a jaunt this way your- 
self, I have a spare spoon, knife, and 
fork very much at your service. My com- 
pliments to Mrs. Tennant, and all the 
good folks in Glenconner and Bar- 
quharrie. 

R. B. 



No. CXLVII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,_ ) 

New-year-day Morning, 1789. f 

This, dear madam, is a morning of 
wishes, and would to God that I came 
under the apostle James' description — 
the prayer of a righteous man availeth 
much. In that case, madam, you 
should welcome in a year full of bless- 
ings: everything that obstructs or dis- 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



425 



turbs tranquility and self -enjoyment 
should be removed, and every pleasure 
that frail humanity can taste should 
be yours, I own myself so little a 
Presbyterian that I approve of set 
times and seasons of more than ordi- 
nary acts of devotion, for breaking in 
on that habituated routine of life and 
thought which is so apt to reduce our 
existence to a kind of instinct, or even 
sometimes, and with some minds, to a 
state very little superior to mere ma- 
chinery. 

This day — the first Sunday of May 
— a breezy, blue-skyed noon some 
time about the beginning, and a hoary 
morning and calm sunny day, about 
the end of autumn; these, times out of 
mind, have been with me a kind of 
holiday. 

I believe I owe this to that glorious 
paper in the Spectator, " The Vision 
of Mirza," a piece that struck my 
young fancy before I was capable 
of fixing an idea to a word of three 
syllables: "On the 5th day of the 
moon, which, according to the custom 
of my forefathers, I always keep holy, 
after having washed myself, and of- 
fered up my morning devotions, I as- 
cended the high hill of Bagdad, in or- 
der to pass the rest of the day in 
meditation and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to noth- 
ing, of the substance or structure of 
our souls, so cannot account for those 
seeming caprices in them that one 
should be particularly pleased with 
this thing, or struck with that, which, 
on minds of a different cast, makes 
no extraordinary impression. I have 
some favourite flowers in spring, 
among which are the mountain- daisy, 
the harebell, the foxglove, the wild 
briar-rose, the budding birch, and the 
hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang 
over with particular delight. I never 
jhear the Icud, solitary whistle of the 
cCurlew in a summer noon, or the wild 
.mixing cadence of a troop of gray plov- 
,ers in an autumnal morning, without 
jfeeling an elevation of soul like the 
iBnthusiasm of devotion or poetry. 
Tell me, my dear friend, to what can 
tills be owing? Are we a piece of ma- 



chinery, which, like the Eolian harp, 
passive, takes the impression of the 
passing accident? Or do these work- 
ings argue something within us above 
the trodden clod? I own myself par- 
tial to such proofs of those awful and 
important realities — a God that made 
all things — man's immaterial and im- 
mortal nature — and a world of weal or 
woe beyond death and the grave. 

R. B. 



No. CXLVIII. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Ellisland, Jan. 4, 1789. 

Sir, — As often as I think of writing 
to you, which has been three or four 
times every week these six months, it 
gives me something so like the idea of 
an ordinary-sized statue offering at a 
conversation with the Rhodian colos- 
sus, that my mind misgives me, and 
the affair always miscarries somewhere 
between purpose and resolve. I have 
at last got some business with you, and 
business letters are written by the 
style-book. 1 say my business is with 
you, sir, for you never had any with 
me, except the business that benevo- 
lence has in the mansion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a 
poet were formerly my pleasure, but 
are now my pride. I know that a very 
great deal of my late eclat was owing 
to the singularity Of my situation, 
and the honest prejudice of Scotsmen; 
but still, as I said in the preface to my 
first edition, I do look upon myself aa 
having some pretensions fiom nature 
to the poetic character. I have not a 
doubt but the knack, the aptitude, to 
learn the Muses' trade, is a gift be- 
stowed by Him " who forms the secret 
bias of the soul : " — but I as firmly be- 
lieve that excellence in the profession 
is the fruit of industry, labour, atten- 
tion, and pains. At least I am resolved 
to try my doctrine by the test of expe- 
rience. Another appearance from the 
press I put off to a very distant day, a 
day that may never arrive — but poesy 
I am determined to prosecute with all 
my vigour. Nature has given verjf 



426 



BURNS' WORKS. 



few, if any, of the profession, the tal- 
ents of shining in every species of com- 
position, I shall try (for until trial it 
is impossible to know) whether she has 
qualified me to shine in any one. The 
worst of it is, by the time one has fin- 
ished a piece, it has been so often 
viewed and reviewed before the men- 
tal eye, that onel oses, in a good measure, 
the powers of critical discrimination. 
Here the best criterion I know is a 
friend — not only of abilities to judge, 
but with good-nature enough, like a 
prudent teacher with a young learner, 
to praise perhaps a little more than is 
exactly just, lest the thin-skinned ani- 
mal fall into that most deplorable of 
all poetic diseases — heart breaking de- 
spondency of himself. — Dare I, sir, 
already immensely indebted to your 
goodness, ask the additional obligation 
of your being that friend to me ? I enclose 
you an essay of mine in a walk of poesy 
to me entirely new; I mean the epistle 
addressed to R. G., Esq., or Robert 
Graham, of Fintray, Esq., a gentleman 
of uncommon worth, to whom I lie 
under very great obligations. The 
story of the poem, like most of my 
poems, is ' connected with my own 
story, and to give you the one, I must 
give you something of the other. I 
cannot boast of Mr. Creech's ingenuous 
fair dealing with me. He kept me hang- 
ing about Edinburgh from the 7th 
August 1787, until the 13th April 1788, 
before he would condescend to give 
me a statement of affairs; nor had I 
got it even then, but for an angry 
letter I wrote him, which irritated his 
pride. *' I could " not a " tale " but a 
detail "unfold," but what am I that 
should speak against the Lord's an- 
ointed Bailie of Edinburgh? 

I believe I shall, in the whole, (£100 
copyright included,) clear about £400, 
some little odds ; and even part of this 
depends upon what the gentleman has 
yet to settle with me. I give you this 
information, because you did me- the 
honour to interest yourself much in 
my welfare. I give you this informa- 
tion, but I give it to yourself only, for 
1 am still much in the gentleman's 
mercy. Perhaps I injure the man in 



the idea I am sometimes tempted t© 
have of him — God forbid I should! A 
little time will try, for in a month I 
shall go to town to wind up the busi- 
ness if possible. 

To give the rest of my story in brief, 
I have married " my Jean " and taken 
a farm : with the first step I have every 
day more and more reason to be satis- 
fied: with the last, it is rather the re- 
verse. I have a younger brother, who 
supports my aged mother; another still 
younger brother, and three sisters, in 
a farm. On my last return from Edin- 
burgh, it cost me about £180 to save 
them from ruin. Not that 1 have lost so 
much — I only interposed between my 
brother and his impending fate by the 
loan of so much. I give myself no 
airs on this, for it was mere selfishness 
on my part: I was conscious that the 
wrong scale of the balance was pretty 
heavily charged, and I thought that 
throwing a little filial piety and fra- 
ternal affection into the scale in my 
favour, might help to smooth matters 
at the grand reckoning. There is still 
one thing would make my circumstan- 
ces quite easy: I have an Excise offi- 
cer's commission, and 1 live in the 
midst of a country division. My re- 
quest to Mr. Graham, who is one of 
the Commissioners of Excise, was, if 
in his j)ower, to procure me that divi- 
sion. If I were very sanguine, I might 
hope that some of my great patrons 
miglit procure me a treasury warrant 
for supervisor, surveyor-general, &c. 

Thus, secure of a livelihood, * ' to 
thee, sweet poetry, delightful maid,"! 
would consecrate my future days. 

B. B. 



No. CXLIX. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, Jan. 6, 1789 

Many happy returns of the seasoq 
to you, my dear sir! May you be com- 
paratively happy up to your compara- 
tive worth among the sons of men; 
which wisli would, I am sure, make 
you one of the most blest of the hu- 
man race. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



437 



I do not know if passing as a writer 
to the signet be a trial of scientific 
merit, or a mere business of friends 
and interest. However it be, let me 
quote you my two favourite passages, 
wliicli* though I have repeated them 
ten thousand times, still they rouse my 
manhood and steel my resolution like 
inspiration : — 

"■ On reason build resolve, 

That column of true majesty in man." 

—Young. 

" Hear, Alfred, hero of the state, 
Thy genius Heaven's high will declare ; 
The triumph of the truly great 
Is never, never to despair ! 
Is never to despair I" , . , . , 

—Masque of A If red. 

I grant you enter the lists of life, 
to struggle for bread, business, notice, 
and distinction, in common with hun- 
dreds.— But who are they? Men, like 
yourself, and of that aggregate body 
your compeers, seven-tenths of whom 
come short of your advantages natural 
and accidental; while two of those 
that remain either neglect their parts, 
as flowers blooming in a desert, 
or misspend their strength, like a bull 
goring a bramble bush. 

But to change the theme: I am still 
catering for Johnson's publication; 
and among others, I have brushed up 
the following old favourite song a lit- 
tle, with a view to your worship. I 
have only altered a word here and 
there; but if you like the humor of it, 
we shall think of a stanza or two to 
add to it. R. B, 



No. CL. 



TO PROFESSOR DUGALD 
STEWART. 



Ellisland, Jan. 20, 1789. 
SiR^ — The enclosed sealed packet I 
sent to Edinburgh a few days after I 
had the happiness of meeting you in 
Ayrshire, but you were gone for the 
Continent. I have now added a few 
more of my productions, those for 
which I am indebted to the Nithsdale 
Muses. The piece inscribed to R. G. , 
Esq., is a copy of verses I sent Mr. 



Graham of Fintray, accompanying a 
request for his assistance in a matter, 
to me, of very great moment. To that 
gentleman I am already doubly indebt- 
ed for deeds of kindness of serious im- 
port to my dearest interests— done in 
a manner grateful to the delicate feel 
ings of sensibility. This poem is a 
species of composition new to me; but 
I do not intend it shall be my last 
essay of the kind, as you will see by 
the "Poet's Progress." These frag- 
ments, if my design succeed, are but a 
small part of the intended whole. 1 
propose it shall be the work of my ut- 
most exertions, ripened by years; of 
course 1 do not wish it much known. 
The fragment beginning "A little, 
upright, pert, tart," &c., I have not 
shown to man living, till I now send it 
•you. It forms the postulata, the axioms, 
the definition of a character, which, if 
it appear at all, shall be placed in a 
variety of lights. This particular part 
I send you merely as a sample of my 
hand at portrait -sketching; but, lest 
idle conjecture should pretend to point 
out the "original, please to let it be for 
your single, sole inspection. 

Need I make any apology for this 
trouble to a gentleman who has treat- 
ed me with such marked benevolence 
and peculiar kindness— who has en- 
tered into my interests with so much 
zeal, and on whose critical decisions I 
can so fully depend ? A poet as I am 
by trade, these decisions are to me of 
the last consequence. My late tran- 
sient acquaintance among some of the 
mere rank and file of greatness, I re- 
sign with ease: but to the distinguished 
champions of genius and learning \ 
shall be ever ambitious of being 
known. The native genius and accu- 
rate discernment in Mr. Stewart's crit- 
ical strictures; the justness (iron just- 
ness, for he has no bowels of compas- 
sion for a poor poetic sinner) of Dr. 
Gregory's remarks,* and the delicacy 
of Professor Dalziel's taste, I shall ever 
revere. 
I shall be in Edinburgh some time 



* The popt alludes to the merciless stric- 
tures of Dr. Gregory on the poem of tho 
"Wounded Hare," 



423 



BURNS' WORKS. 



next montli. — I have the honour to be, 
sir, your highly-obliged, and very hum- 
ble servant, K. B. 



No. CLI. 
TO BISHOP GEDDES.* 

Ellisland, Feb. 3, 1789. 

Venerable Father,— As I am con- 
scious that, wherever I am, you do me 
the honour to interest yourself in my 
welfare, it gives me pleasure to inform 
you, that I am here at last, stationary 
in the serious business of life, and 
have now not only the retired leisure, 
but the hearty inclination, to attend 
to those great and important questions 
— What am I ? where am I ? and for 
what am I destined? 

In that first concern,* the conduct of 
man, there was ever but one side on 
which I was habitually blamable, and 
there I have secured myself in the 
way pointed out by nature and nature's 
God. I was sensible that, to so help- 
less a creature as a poor poet, a wife 
and family were encumbrances, which 
a species of prudence would bid him 
shun; but when the alternative was 
being at eternal warfare with myself 
on account of habitual follies, to give 
them no worse name, which no gener- 
al example, no licentious wit, no so- 
phistical infidelity, would, to me, ever 
justify, I must have been a fool to 
have hesitated, and a madman to have 
made another choice. Besides, I had 
in " my Jean" a long and much-loved 
fellow-creature's happiness or misery 
among my hands — and who could tri- 
fle with such a deposit ? 

In the affair of a livelihood, I think 
myself tolerably secure; I have good 
hopes of my farm, but should they 
fail, I have an Excise commission, 



* Alexander Geddes, a bishop of the Roman 
Catholic Church, was a man of undoubted 
talents, but much too liberal for his Church. 
He was the author of a clever rustic poem, 
beginning, 
*' There was a wee wifiekie, -was coming frae 

the fair," 
and had translated one of the books of the 
Iliad. 



which, on my simple petition, will, at 
any time, procure me bread. There 
is a certain stigma affixed to the char- 
acter of an Excise-officer, but I do not 
pretend to borrow honour from my 
profession; and though the salary be 
comparatively small, it is a luxury to 
anything that the first twenty-five 
years of my life taught me to expect. 

Thus, with a rational aim and meth- 
od in life, you may easily guess, my ^ 
reverend and much honoured friend, 
that my characteristical trade is not 
forgotten. I am, if possible, more than 
ever an enthusiast to the Muses. I 
am determined to study man and na- 
ture, and in that view incessantly; 
and to try if the ripening and correc- 
tions of years can enable me to pro- 
duce something worth preserving. 

You will see in your book, which I 
beg your pardon for detaining so long, 
that I have been tuning my lyre on the 
banks of the Nith. Some large poetic 
plans that are floating in my imagina- 
tion, or partly put in execution, I shall 
impart to you when I have the pleas- 
ure of meeting with you ; which, if 
you are then in Edinburgh, I shall 
have about t^ e beginning of March. 

That acquaintance, worthy sir, with 
which you were pleased to honor me, 
you must still allow me to challenge ; 
for with whatever unconcern I give up 
my transient connexion with the merely 
great, I cannot lose the patronising 
notice of the learned and good, without 
the bitterest regret. 

R. B. 



No. CLII. 
TO MR. JAMES BURNESS. 

Ellisland, Feb. 9, 1789. 

My dear Sir, — Why I did not write 
to you long ago is what even on the 
rack I could not answer. If you can in 
your mind fonn an idea of indolence, 
dissipation, hurry, cares, change of 
country, entering on untried scenes of 
life, all combined, you will save me 
the trouble of a blushing apology. It 
could not be want of regard for a 
man for whom I had a high esteem 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



42S 



before I knew liim — an esteem whicli 
has much increased since 1 did know 
him , and, this caveat entered, I shall 
plead guilty to any other indictment 
with which you shall please to charge 
me. 

After I parted from you, for many 
months my life was one continued 
Bcene of dissipation. Here at last I 
am become stationary, and have taken 
a farm and — a wife. 

The farm is beautifully situated on 
the Nith, a large river that runs by 
Dumfries, and falls into the Solway 
Frith. I have gotten a lease of my 
farm as long as 1 please ; but how' it 
may turn out is just a guess; and it is 
yet to improve and enclose, &c. ; how- 
ever, I ha- e good hopes of my bargain 
on the whole. 

My wif^ is my Jean, with whose 
Story you are partly acquainted. I 
found I had a much-loved fellow-crea- 
ture's happiness or misery among my 
hands, and I durst not trifle with so 
sacred a deposit. Indeed I have not 
any reason to repent the step I have 
taken, as I have attached myself to a 
very good wife, and have shaken my- 
self loose of every bad feeling, 

I have found my book a very profit- 
able business, and with the profits of 
it I have begun life pretty decently. 
Should fortune not favour me in 
farming, as I have no great faith in 
her fickle ladyship, I have provided 
myself in another resource, which, 
however some folks may affect to de- 
spise it, is still a comfortable shift in 
the day of misfortune. Iq the heyday 
of my fame, a gentleman, whose name 
at least I daresay you know, c3 his es- 
tate lies somewhere near Dundee, Mr. 
Graham of Fintray, one of the Commis- 
sioners of Excise offered me the com- 
mission of an Excise-officer. I thought 
it prudent to accept the offer ; and ac- 
cordingly I took my instructions, and 
have my commission by me. Whether 
I may ever do daty, or be a penny the 
better for it, is what I do not know ; 
but I have the comfortable assurance 
that, come whatever ill fate will, I 
can, on my simple petition to the Ex- 
cise Board, get into'employ. 



We have lost poor Uncle Robert thia 
winter. He has long been very weak, 
and, with very little alteration on him. 
he expired on the 3d Jan. 

His son William has been with me 
this winter, and goes in May to be an 
apprentice to a mason. His other son, 
the eldest, John, comes to me I expect 
in summer. They are both remark- 
ably stout young fellows, and promise 
to do well. His only daughter, Fanny, 
has been with me ever since her 
father's death, and I purpose keeping 
her in my family till she be quite 
woman grown, and fit for better ser- 
vice. She is one of the cleverest girls, 
and has one of the most amiable dis- 
positions, I have ever seen. 

All friends in this country and Ayr- 
shire are well. Remember me to all 
friends in the north. My wife joins 
me in compliments to Mrs. B. and 
family. I am ever, my dear cousin, 
yours sincerely, 

R. B» 



No. CLHI.. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, March 4, 1789. 

Here am I, my honoured friend, re- 
turned safe from the capital. To a 
man who has a home, however humble 
or remote — if that home is, like mine, 
the scene of domestic comfort — the 
bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a' 
business of sickening disgust. 

'* Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate 
you !" 

When I must skulk into a comer, 
lest the rattling equipage of some gap- 
ing blockhead should mangle me in 
the mire, I am tempted to exclaim 
— " What merits has he had, or what 
demerit have I had, in some state of 
pre-existence, that he is ushered into 
this state of being with the sceptre of 
rule, and the key of riches in his puny 
fist, and I am kicked into the world, 
the sport of folly, or the victim of 
pride ? " I hav^e read somewhere of a 
monarch (in Spain I think it was) who 
was so out of humour with the Ptolo- 
mean system of astronomj that he 



430 



BURNS' WORKS. 



i 



said had he been of the Creator's coun- 
cil, he could have saved Him a great 
deal of labour and absurdity. I will 
not defend this blasphemous speech; 
but often, as I have glided with hum- 
ble stealth through the pomp of 
Princess Street, it has suggested itself 
to me, as an improvement on the 
present human figure, that a man, in 
proportion to his own conceit of his 
consequence in the world, could have 
pushed out the longitude of his com- 
mon size, as a snail pushes out his 
horns, or as we draw out a perspective. 
This trifling alteration, not to mention 
the prodigious saving it would be. in 
the tear and the wear of the neck and 
limb sinews of many of his ma- 
jesty's liege subjects, in the way of 
tossing the head and tiptoe strutting, 
would evidently turn out a vast advan- 
tage, in enabling us at once to adjust 
the ceremonials in making a bow, or 
making way to a great man, and that 
too within a second of the precise 
spherical angle of reverence, or an inch 
of the particular point of respectful 
distance, which the important creature 
itself requires; as a measuring-glance 
at its towering altitude would deter- 
mme the affair like instinct. 

You are right, madam, in your idea 
of Mylne's poem, which he has ad- 
dressed to me. The piece has a good 
deal of merit, but it has one great 
fault — it is, by far, too long. Besides, 
my success has encouraged such a 
shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl 
into public notice, under the title of 
Scottish poets, that the very term 
Scottish poetry borders on the bur- 
lesque. When I write to Mr. Carfrae, 
1 shall advise him rather to try one of 
his deceased friend's English pieces. 
1 am prodigiously hurried with my own 
matters, else I would have requested a 
I)erusal of all Mylne's poetic perform- 
ances; and would have offered his 
friends my assistance in either select- 
ing or correcting what would be 
proper for the press. What it is that 
occupies me so much, and perhaps a 
Jittle oppresses my spirits, shall fill up 
a paragraph in some future letter. In 
the meantime, allow me to close this 



epistle with a few lines done by a f rien 
of mine .... I give you them, 
that, as you have seen the origijial, 
you may guess whether one or two al- 
terations I have ventured to make in 
them be any real improvement: — 

" Like the fair plant that from our touch with, 
draws, 
Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause, 
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream, 
And all you are, my charming .... seem. 
Straight as the foxglove ere her bells dis- 
close, [blows. 
Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn 
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind, 
Your form shall be the image of your mind ; 
Your manners shall so true your soul ex- 
press, [guess ; 
That all shall long to know the worth they 
Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred 

love, 
And even sickning envy must approve." 
R. B. 



No. CLIV. 
TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 

March 1789. 

Rev. Sir, — I do not recollect that I 
have ever felt a severer pang of shame 
than on looking at the date of your 
obliging letter which accompanied Mr. 
Mylne's poem. 

I am much to blame: the honour 
Mr. Mylne has done me, greatly en- 
hanced in its value '. r the endearing, 
though melancholy, circumstance of 
its being the last production of his 
muse, deserved a better return, 

I have, as you hint, thought of send- 
ing a copy of the poem to some period- 
ical publication; but, on second 
thoughts, I am afraid that, in the 
present case, it would be an improper 
step. My success, perhaps as much 
accidental as merited, has brought an 
inundation of nonsense under the name 
of Scottish poetry. Subscription-bills 
for Scottish poems have so dunned, 
and daily do dun the public, that the 
very name is in danger of contempt. 
For these reasons, if publishing any of 
Mr. Mylne's poems in a magazine, &c. , 
be at all prudent, in my opinion it cer- 
tainly should not be a Scottish poem. 
The profits of the labours of a man of 



OENEHAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



431 



genius are, I hopi, as honourable as 
any profits whatever ; and Mr. Mylne's 
relations are most justly entitled to 
tliat honest harvest w^iich fate has 
denied himself to reap. But let the 
friends of Mr. Mylne's fame (among 
whom I crave the honour of ranking 
myself) always keep in eye his respect- 
ability as a man and as a poet, and 
take no measure that, before the world 
knows anything about him, would risk 
his name and character being classed 
with the fools of the times. 

I have, sir, some experience of pub- 
lishing ; and the way in which I would 
proceed with Mr. Mylne's poems is 
this : — I would publish, in two or three 
English and Scottish public papers, 
any one of his English poems which 
should by private judges, be thought 
the most excellent, and mention it, at 
the same time, as one of the produc- 
tions of a Lothian farmer, of respect- 
able character, lately deceased, whose 
poems his friends had it in idea to pub- 
lish soon by subscription, for the sake 
of his numerous family: — not in pity 
to that family, but in justice to what 
his friends think the poetic merits of 
the deceased ; and to secure, in the 
most effectual manner to those tender 
connexions, whose right it is, the pe- 
cuni ary reward of those merits. 

R. B. 



No. CLV. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

EllislaNd, March 23, 1789. 
Sm, — The gentleman who will de- 
liver you this is a Mr. Nielson, a wor- 
thy clergyman in my neighbourhood, 
and a very particular acquaintance of 
mine. As I have troubled him with 
this packet, 1 must turn him over to 
your goodness, to recompense him for 
it in a way in which he much needs 
your assistance, and where you can 
effectually serve him: — Mr. Nielson is 
on his way for France, to wait on his 
Grace of Queensberry, on some little 



business of a good deal of importance 
to him, and he wishes for your instruc- 
tions respecting the most eligible 
mode of travelling, &c., for him, when 
he has crossed the Channel. I should 
not have dared to take this liberty 
with you, but that I am told, by those 
who have the honour of your personal 
acquaintance, that to be a poor honest 
Scotchman is a letter of recommenda- 
tion to you, and that to have it in your 
power to serve such a character gives 
you much pleasure. 

The enclosed ode is a compliment to 
the memory of the late Mrs. Oswald of 
Auchencruive. You probably knew 
her personally, an honour of which I 
cannot boast; but I spent my early 
years in her neighbourhood, and 
among her servants and tenants. I know 
that she was detested with the most 
heartfelt cordiality. However, in the 
particular part of her conduct which 
roused my poetic wrath, she was much 
less blamable. In January last, on 
my road to Ayrshire, I had put up at 
Bailie Wigham's, in Sanquhar, the 
only tolerable inn in the place. The 
frost was keen, and the grim evening 
and howling wind were ushering in a 
night of snow and drift. My horse 
and I were both much fatigued with 
the labours of the day, and just as my 
friend the bailie and I were bidding 
defiance to the storm over a smoking 
bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantry 
of the late great Mrs. Oswald, and 
poor I was forced to brave all the hor- 
rors of the tempestuous night, and jade 
my horse, my young favourite horse, 
whom I had just christened Pegasus, 
twelve miles farther on, through the 
wildest moors and hills of Ayrshire, 
to New Cumnock, the next inn. The 
powers of poesy and prose sink under 
me, when I would describe what I felt. 
Suffice it to say that, when a good fire 
at New Cumnock had so far recovered 
my frozen sinews, I sat down and 
wrote the enclosed ode. 

I was at Edinburgh lately, and set- 
tled finally with Mr. Creech; and I 
must own that, at last, he has been 
amicable and fair with me. 

R. B. 



m 



BtJUNS' WORKS. 



No. CLVI. 
TO MR. WILLIAM BURNS. 

Isle, March 25, 1789. 
I HAVE stolen from my own c(jin- 
sowing this minute to write a line to 
accompany your shirt and hat, for I 
can no more. Your sister Nannie ar- 
rived yesternight, and begs to be re- 
membered to you. Write me every 
opportunity — never mind postage. My 
head, too, is as addle as an egg this morn- 
ing with dining abroad yesterday. 1 
received yours by the mason. Forgive 
me this foolish-looking scrawl of an 
espistle. — I am ever, my dear William 
yours, R. B. 

P. S. — If you are not then gone 
from Longtown, I'll write you a long 
letter by this day se'ennight. If you 
should not succeed in your tramps, 
don't be dejected, nor take any rash 
step — return to us in that case, and we 
will court Fortune's better humor. 
Eemember this, I charge you. 

R. B. 



No. CLVII. 
TO MR. HILL. 

Ellisland, April 2, 1789. 

I WILL make no excuse, my dear 
Bibliopolus, (God forgive me for mur- 
dering language!) that I have sat down 
to write you on this vile paper. 

It is economy, sir; it is that cardinal 
virtue, prudence; so I beg you will sit 
down, and either compose or borrow a 
panegyric. If you are going to borrow, 

apply to to compose, or rather to 

compound, something very clever on 
my remarkable frugality ; that I write 
to one of my most esteemed friends on 
this wretched paper; which was origin- 
ally intended for the venal fist of some 
drunken exciseman, to take dirty 
notes in a miserable vault or an ale- 
cellar. 

O Frugality! thou mother of ten 
thousand blessings — thou cook of fat 
beef and dainty greens! — thou manu- 
facturer of warm Shetland hose, and 
comfortable surtouts! — thou old house- 



wife, darning thy decayed stockings 
with thy ancient spectacles on thy 
aged nose! — lead me, hand me in thy 
clutching palsied fist, up these heights 
and through those thickets, hitherto 
inaccessible, and impervious to my 
anxious, weary feet: — not those Par- 
nassian crags, bleak and barren, where 
the hungry worshippers of fame are, 
breathless, clambfering, hanging be- 
tween heaven and hell ; but those glit- 
tering cliffs of Potosi, where the all- 
sufficient, all-powerful deity. Wealth, 
holds his immediate court of joys and 
pleasures; where the sunny exposure 
of plenty, and the hot walls of profu- 
sion, produce those blissful fruits of 
luxury, exotics in this world, and 
natives of Paradise ! — Thou withered 
sibyl, my sage conductress, usher me 
into thy refulgent, adored presence! — 
The power, splendid and potent as he 
now is, was once the puling nursling 
of thy faithful care, and tender arms! 
— Call me thy son, thy cou«in, thy 
kinsman, or favourite, and adjure the 
god by the scenes of his infant years, 
no longer to repulse me as a stranger, 
or an alien, but to favour me with his 
peculiar countenance and protection! 
— He daily bestows his greatest kind- 
ness on the undeserving and the worth- 
less — assure him that I bring ample doc- 
uments of meritorious demerits! Pledge 
yourself for me, that, for the glorious 
cause of Lucre, I will do anything, be 
anything — but the horse-leech of pri> 
vate oppression, or the vulture of pub- 
lic robbery! 
But to descend from heroics. 



I want a Shakespeare; I want like- 
wise an English dictionary — Johnson's, 
I suppose, is the best. In these, and 
all my prose commissions, the cheapest 
is always the best for me. There is a 
small debt of honour that I owe Mr. 
Robert Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, 
my worthy friend, and your well, 
wisher. Please give him, and urge 
him to take it, the first time you sea 
him, ten shillings' worth of anything 
you have to sell, and place it to my ac- 
count. The library scheme that I 
meutioaed to you is already begun, 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



under the directionN^f Captain Riddel. 
There is another in emtjation of it going 
on at Closeburn, under the auspices of 
Mr, Monteith of Closeburn, which will 
be on a greater scale than ours. Cap- 
tain Riddel gave his infant society a 
great many of his old books> else I 
had written you on that subject; but 
one of these days I shall trouble you 
with a commission for * ' The Monk- 
land Friendly Society"—- a copy of the 
the 8pectat(r, Mirror, and Lounger, 
"Man of Feeling," "Man of the 
World," Guthrie's " Geographical 
Grammar," with some religious pieces, 
will likely be our first order. 

When I grow richer, I will write to 
you on gilt post, to make amends for 
this sheet, At present, every guinea 
has a five guinea errand with, my dear 
sir, your faithful, poor, but honest 
friend, R. B. 



No. CLVIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, April 4, 1789. 

I NO sooner hit on any poetic plan of 
fancy but I wish to send it to you : and 
if knowing and reading these give 
half the pleasure to you that commu- 
nicating them to you gives to me, I am 
satisfied. 

I have a poetic whim in my head, 
which I at present dedicate, or rather 
Inscribe, to the Right Hon. Charles 
James Fox; but how long the fancy 
may hold, I cannot say. A few of the 
first lines I have just rough-sketched 
as follows.* 

On the 20th current I hope to have 
the honour of assuring you in person 
Jiow sincerely I am 

R. B. 



No. CLIX. 

TO MRS. M'MURDO, 
DRUMLANRIG. 

Ellisland, May 2, 1789. 
Madam, — I have finished the piece 
which had the happy fortune to be 



* See the entire sketch at p. 117. 



honoured with your approbation; and 
never did little Miss with more .park 
ling pleasure show her applauded sam- 
pler to partial mama than I now send 
my poem* to you and Mr. M'Murdo, if 
he is returned to Drumlanrig. You 
cannot easily imagine what thin-skin- 
ned animals — what sensitivv; plants 
poor poets are. How do we shrink in- 
to the embittered corner of self-abase- 
ment when neglected or condemned 
by those to whom we look up ! and 
how do we, in erect importance, add 
another cubit to our stature, on being 
noticed and applauded by those whom 
we honour and respect ! My late visit 
to Drumlanrig has, I can tell you, ma- 
dam, given me a ballo.a waft up Par- 
nassus, where on my fancied elevation 
I regard my poetic self with no small 
degree of complacency. Surely, with 
all their sins, the rhyming tribe are 
not ungrateful creatures. — I recollect 
your goodness to your humble guest. 
I see Mr. M'Murdo adding to the polite- 
ness of the gentleman the kindness of 
a friend, and my' heart swells, as it 
would burst with warm emotions and 
ardent wishes ! It may be it is not 
gratitude — it may be a mixed sensa- 
tion. That strange, shifting, doubling 
animal man is so generally at best but 
a negative, often a worthless, creature, 
that we cannot see real goodness and 
native worth without feeling the 
bosom glow with sympathetic appro- 
bation. — With every sentiment of 
grateful respect, I have the honour to 
be, madam, your obliged and grateful 
humble servant, 

R. B. 



No. CLX. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, May 4, 1789. 

My dear Sir,— Your duty-free 
favor of the 26th April I received two 
days ago ; I will not say I perused it 



* The poem alluded to is the song entitled 
" There was a lass and she was fair," p. 254, 
The heroine was the eldest daughter ox Mrs, 
M'Murdo, and sister to Phillis. 



434 



Btm^^s' WORKS. 



with pleasure ; that is the cold com- 
pliment of ceremony ; I perused it, sir, 
with delicious satisfaction ; — in short, 
it is such a letter as not you, nor your 
friend, but the Legislature, by express 
proviso in their postage laws, should 
frank. A letter informed with the 
soul of friendship is such an honour 
to human nature, that they should 
order it free ingress and egress to and 
from their bags and mails, as an en- 
couragement and mark of distinction 
to supereminent virtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a 
little poem, which I think will be 
something to your taste. One morn- 
ing lately, as I was out pretty early in 
the fields, sowing some grass seeds, I 
heard the burst of a shot from a neigh- 
bouring plantation, and presently a 
poor little wounded hare came crip- 
pling by me. You will guess my in- 
dignation at the inhuman fellow who 
could shoot a hare at this season, when 
all of them have young ones. Indeed 
there is something in that business of 
destroying for our sport individuals in 
the animal creation, that do not injure 
us materially, which I could never re- 
concile to my ideas of virtue. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ! 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Let me know how you like my 
poem,* I am doubtful whether it 
would not be an improvement to keep 
out the last stanza but one altogether. 

Cruikshank is a glorious production 
of the Author of man. You, he, and 
the noble Colonelf of the Crochallan 
Fencibles are to me 

" Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my 
heart." 

I have a good mhid to make verses on 
you all, to the. tune of "Three good 
fellows ayont the glen. " 

R. B. 



* The poem on the Wounded Hare. Burns 
had also sent a copy to Dr. Gregory for his 
criticism. 

t Mr. William Dunbar. W. S. 



No. OLXL 

TO MR. SAMUEL BROWN.* 

MossGiEL, May 4, 1789. 

Dear Uncle,— This, I hope, will 
find you and your conjugal yoke-fel- 
low in your good old way ; I am impa- 
tient to know if the Ailsa fowling be 
commenced for this season yet, as I want 
three or four stones of feathers, and I 
hope you will bespeak them for me. 
It would be a vain attempt for me to 
enumerate the various transactions I 
have been engaged in since I saw you 
last; but this know — I am engaged in 
a smuggling trade, and God knows if 
ever any poor man experienced better 
returns, two for one; but as freight and 
delivery have turned out so dear, I am 
thinking of taking out a license and 
beginning in fair trade. I have taken 
a farm on the borders of the Nith, 
and, in imitation of the old Patriarchs, 
get men-servants and maid-servants, 
and flocks and herds, and beget sons 
and daughters. 

Your obedient nephew, R. B. 



No. CLXII. 

TO RICHARD BROWN. 

Mauhcline, May 21, 1789. 

My dear Friend, — I was in the 
country by accident, and hearing of 
your safe arrival, I could not resist the 
temptation of wishing you joy on your 
return — wishing you would write to 
me before you sail again — wishing 
you would always set me down as your 
bosom friend — wishing you long life 
and prosperity, and that every good 
thing may attend you — wishing Mrs. 
Brown and your little ones as free 
of the evils of this world as is con- 
sistent with humanity — wishing you 
and she were to make two at the en 



* Samuel Brown was brother to the poet's 
mother, and seems to have been a joyous and 
tolerant sort of person. He appears also to 
have been somewhat ignorant of the poet's 
motions, for the license to which he alludes 
was taken out nearly a twelvemonth before 
this letter was written. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



435 



suing lying-in, With which Mrs. B. 
threatens very soon to favour me — 
wishing I had longer time to write to 
you at present; and, finally, wishing 
that, if there is to be another state of 
existence, Mr. B., Mrs. B., our little 
ones, and both families, and you and I 
in some snug retreat, may make a 
jovial party to all eternity! 

My direction is at Ellisland, near 
Dumfries. — Yours. R. B. 



No. CLXIII. 
TO MR. JAMES HAMILTON.* 

Ellisland, May 26, 1789. 

Dear Sir,— I send you by John 
Glover, carrier, the above account for 
Mr. Turnbull, as I suppose you know 
his address. 

I would fain jpffer, my dear sir, a 
word of sympathy with your misfor- 
tunes; but it is a tender string, and I 
know not how to touch it. It is easy 
to flourish a set of high-flown senti- 
ments on the subjects that would give 
great satisfation to — a breast quite at 
ease; but as one observes who was 
very seldom mistaken in the theory of 
life, ' ' The heart knoweth its own sor- 
rows, and a stranger intermeddleth 
not therewith." 

Among some distressful emergen- 
cies that I have experienced in life, I 
ever laid this down as my foundation 
of comfort — That he icho has lived the 
life of an honest man has hy no means 
lived in vain ! 

With every wish for your welfare 
and future success, I am, my dear sir, 
sincerely yours, R. B. 



No. CLXIV. 
TO WILLIAM CREECH, ESQ. 

Ellisland, May 30, 1789. 
Sir, — I had intended to have trou- 
bled you with a long letter, bnt at 



* One of the poet's early friends, whose 
misfortunes called forth this letter of coudo- 
kace from Burns. 



present the delightful sensations of an 
onmipotent toothache so engross all my 
inner man as to put it out of my power 
even to write nonsense. However, as 
in duty bound, I approach my booksel- 
ler with an offering in my hand — a few 
poetic clinches and a song. To expect 
any other kind of offering from the 
rhyming tribe would be to know them 
much less than you do. I do not pretend 
that there is much merit in these 
morceaux, but I have two reasons for 
sending them — Prima, they are most- 
ly ill-natured, so are in unison with 
my present feelings, while fifty troops 
of infernal spirits are driving post 
from ear to ear along my jaw bones; 
and secondly, they are so short, that you 
cannot leave off in the middle, and so 
hurt my pride in the idea that you 
foimd any work of mine too heavy to 
get through. 

I have a request to beg of you, and 
I not only beg of you, but conjure you, 
by all your wishes and by all your 
hopes that the muse will spare the 
satiric wink in the moment of your 
foibles; that she will warble the song 
of rapture round your hymeneal couch; 
and that she will shed on your turf 
the honest tear of elegiac gratitude: 
grant my request as speedily as possible 
— send me by the very first fly or coach 
for this place three copies of the last 
edition of my poems, which place to 
my account. 

Now may the good things of prose, 
and the good things of verse, come 
among thy hands, until they be filled 
with the good things of this life, pray- 
eth R. B. 



No. CLXV. 

TO MR. MACAULAY, OP 
DUMBARTON. 

Ellisland, June 4, 1789. 

Dear Sir,— Though I am not with- 
out my fears respecting my fate at 
that grand, universal inquest of right 
and wrong, commonly called the LasI 



436 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Bay, yet I trust there is one sin, which 
that arch-vagabond, Satan, who I un- 
derstand is to be king's evidence, can- 
not throw in my teeth — I mean ingrat- 
itude. There is a certain pretty large 
quantum of kindness for which I re- 
main, and, from inability, I fear must 
still remain, your debtor ; but, though 
unable to repay the debt, I assure you 
sir, I shall ever warmly remember the 
obligation. It gives me the sincerest 
pleasure to hear by my old acquain- 
tance, Mr Kennedy, that you are, in 
immortal Allan's language, "Hale, 
and weel, and living ;" and that your 
charming family are well, and promis- 
ing to be an amiable and respectable 
addition to the company of performers, 
whom the great manager of the drama 
of man is bringing into action for the 
succeeding age. 

With respect to my welfare, a sub- 
ject in which you once warmly and 
effectively interested yourself, I am 
here in my old way, holding my plough, 
marking the growth of my corn, or the 
health of my dairy ; and at times saun- 
tering by the delightful windings of 
the Nith, on the margin of which I 
have built my humble domicile, pray- 
ing for seasonable weather, or holding 
an intrigue with the Muses ; the only 
gypsies with whom I have now any in- 
tercourse. As I am entered into the 
holy state of matrimony, I trust my 
face is turned completely Zion ward ; 
and as it is a rule with all honest fel- 
lows to repeat no grievances, I hope 
that the little poetic licences of former 
days will of course fall under the ob- 
livious influence of some good-natured 
statute of celestial prescription. In 
my family devotion, which, like a good 
Presbyterian, I occasionally give to my 
household folks, I am extremely fond 
of the psalm, ' ' Let not the errors of my 
youth," &c.; and that other; " Lo ! 
children are God's heritage," &c. ; in 
which last Mrs. Burns, who by the by 
has a glorious "wood-note wild" at 
either old song or psalmody, joins me 
with the palrhos of Handel's ' ' Mes- 
siah-" 

B. B. 



No. CLXVI. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, June 8, 1789. 

My Dear Friend, — I am perfectly 
ashamed of myself when I look at the 
date of your last. It is not that I for- 
get the friend of my heart and the 
companion of my peregrinations; but 
I have been condemned to drudgery 
beyond sufferance, though not, thank 
God, beyond redemption. I have had 
a collection of poems by a lady put 
into my hands to prepare for the press, 
which horrid task, with sowing cora 
with my own hand, a parcel of masons, 
Wrights, plasterers, &c., to attend to, 
roaming on business through Ayrshire 
— all this was against me, and the very 
first dreadful article was of itself too 
much for me. 

ISth. — I have not had a moment to 
spare from incessant toil since the 8th. 
Life, my dear sir,is a serious matter. You 
know, by experience, that a man's indi- 
vidual self is a good deal , but believe me, 
a wife and family of children, whenever 
you have the honour to be a husband 
and a father, will show you that your 
present and most anxious hours of sol- 
itude are spent on trifles. The welfare 
of those who are very dear to us, 
whose only support, hope, and stay 
we are — this to a generous mind is 
another sort of more important object 
of care than any concerns whatever 
which centre merely in the individual. 
On the other hand, let no young, un- 
married, rake-helly dog among you 
make a song of his pretended liberty , and 
freedom from care. If the relations we 
stand in to king, country, kindred, and 
friends, be anything but the visionary 
fancies of dreaming metaphysicians; if 
religion, virtue, magnanimity, gener- 
osity, humanity, and justice, be aught 
but empty sounds; then the man who 
may be said to live only for others, for 
the beloved, honourable female, whos» 
tender, faithful embrace endears life, 
and for the helpless little innocents who 
are to be the men and women, th^ 
worshippers of his God, the subject.3 
of his king, and the support, nay thff 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



rery vital existence of his country, in 
the ensuing age; — compare such a man 
with any fellow whatever, who, 
whether he bustle and push in busi- 
ness, among labourers, clerks, states- 
men; or whether he roar and rant, and 
drink and sing in taverns — a fellowover 
whose grave no one will ever breathe 
a single " Heigh-ho! " except from 
the cob- web tie of what is called good 
fellowship — who has no view nor aim 
but what terminates in himself — if 
there be any grovelling earth-born 
wretch of our species, a renegado to 
common sense, who would fain be- 
liev^e that the noble creature man is no 
better than a sort of fungus, generated 
out of nothing, nobody knows how, 
and soon dissipating in nothing, no- 
body knows where; such a stupid 
beast, such a crawling reptile, might 
balance the foregoing unexaggerated 
comparison, but no one else would 
have the patience. 

Forgive me, my dear sir, for this 
long silence. To make you amends, I 
shall send you soon,and more encourag- 
ing still, with out any postage, one or 
two rhymes of my later manufacture. 

R. B. 



No. CLXVII. 

TO MR. M'MURDO.* 

Ellisland, June 19, 1789. 

Sir, — A poet and a beggar are in so 
many points of view alike, that one 
might take them for the same individ- 
ual character under different designa- 
tions ; were it not that, though with a 
trifling poetic licence, most poets may 
be styled beggars ; yet the converse of 
the proposition does not hold — that 
every beggar is a poet. In one par- 
ticular, however, they remarkably 
agree ; if you help either the one or 
the other to a mug of ale, or the pick- 



* John M'Murdo of Drumlanrigf was one of 
Burns' firmest Nithsdale friends, and was 
united with others, at the poet's death, in the 
m&na%ement of his affairs, which prospered so 
well that two hundred pounds per annum be- 
came the widow's portion for many years 
before she was laid in the grave. 



ing of a bone, they will very willingly 
repay you with a song. This occurs 
to me at present, as 1 have just dis- 
patched a well-lined rib of John Kirk- 
patrick's Highlander : a bargain for 
which I am indebted to you, in the 
style of our ballad printers, "Five ex- 
cellent new songs." The enclosed is 
nearly my newest song, and one that 
has cost me some pains, though that 
is but an equivocal mark of its excel' 
lence. Two or three others, which 1 
have by me, shall do themselves the 
honour to wait on your after leisure ; 
petitioners for admittance into favour 
must not harass the condescension of 
their benefactor. 

You see, sir, what it is to patronise 
a poet. Tis like being a magistrate 
in a petty borough ; you do them the 
favour to preside in their council for 
one year, and your name bears the pre- 
fatory stigma of bailie for life. 

With, not the compliments, but the 
best wishes, the sincerest prayers of 
the season for you, that you may see 
many and happy yeai-s with Mrs. 
M'Murdo and your family ; two bles- 
sings by the by to which your rank 
does not by any means entitle you — a 
loving wife and fine family being al- 
most the only good things of this life 
to which the farm-house and cottage 
have an exclusive right. — I have the 
honour to be , sir, your much-indebted 
and very humble servant, 

R. B. 



No. CLXVni. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, June 21, '1789. 

Dear Madam,— Will you take the 
effusions, the miserable effusions of 
low spirits, just as they flow from their 
bitter spring? I know not of any 
particular cause for this worst of all 
my foes besetting me, but for some 
time my soul has been beclouded with 
a thickening atmosphere of evil im- 
aginations and gloomy presages. 

Monday Edening. — I have just heard 
Mr. Kirkpatrick preach a sermon. He 



458 



BURNS' WORKS. 



is a man famous for his benevolence, 
and I revere him, but from such ideas 
of my Creator, good Lord, deliver me ! 
Religion, my honoured friend, is surely 
a simple business, as it equally con- 
cerns the ignorant and the learned, the 
poor and the rich. That there is an 
incomprehensible great Being, to whom 
1 owe my existence, and that He must 
be intimately acquainted with the oper- 
ations and progress of the internal ma- 
chinery, and consequent outward de- 
portment of this creature which He 
has made — these are, I think, self-evi- 
dent propositions. That there is a real 
and eternal distinction between virtue 
and vice, and consequently, that 1 am 
an accountable creature ; that, from the 
eeeming nature of the human mind, 
as well as from the evident imperfec- 
tion, nay, positive injustice, in the ad- 
ministration of affairs, both in the nat- 
ural and moral worlds, there nmst be 
a retributive scene of existence beyond 
the grave, must, I think, be allowed 
by every one who will give himself a 
moment's reflection. I will go farther, 
and affirm that, from the sublimity, 
excellence, and purity of His doctrine 
and precepts, unparalleled by all the 
aggregated wisdom and learning of 
many preceding ages, though to ap- 
pearance. He himself was the obscur- 
est and most illiterate of our species — 
therefore Jesus Christ was from God. 

Whatever mitigates the woes or in- 
creases the happiness of others, this is 
my criterion of goodness ; and what- 
ever injures society at large or any in- 
dividual in it, this is my measure of 
iniquity. 

What think you, madam, of my 
creed ? I trust that I have said noth- 
ing that will lessen me in the eye of 
one whose good opinion I value almost 
liext to the approbation of my own 
mind. R. B. 



No. CLXIX. 

TO MISS WILLIAMS. 

Ellislakd, Au'g. 1789. 
Madam, — Of the many problems in 
the nature of that wonderful creature. 



man, this is one of the most extraor- 
dinary, that he shall go on from day 
to day, from week to week, from 
month to month, or perhaps from year 
to year, suffering a hundred times more 
in an hour from the impotent conscious- 
ness of neglecting what he ought to do 
than the very doing of it would cost 
him. I am deeply indebted to you, 
first for a most elegant poetic compli- 
ment ; then, for a polite, obliging let- 
ter ; and, lastly, for your excellent poem 
on the slave trade ; and yet, wretch 
that I am ! though the debts were 
debts of honour, and the creditor a 
lady, I have put off and put off even 
the very acknowledgment of the obli- 
gation, until you must indeed be the 
very angel I take you for if you can 
forgive me. 

Your poem I have read with the 
highest pleasure. I have a way when- 
ever I read a book — I mean a book in 
our own trade, madam, a poetic one — 
and when it is my own property, that 
I take a pencil and mark at the ends of 
the verses, or note on margins and odd 
papere, little criticisms of approbation 
or disapprobation as I peruse along. I 
will make no apology for presenting 
you with a few unconnected thoughts 
that occurred to me in my repeated 
perusals of your poem. I want to 
show you that I have honesty enough 
to tell you what I take to be truths, 
even when they are not quite on the 
side of approbation; and I do it in the 
firm faith that you have equal great- 
ness of mind to hear them with pleas- 
ure. 

I had lately the honour of a letter 
from Dr. Moore, where he tells me 
that he has sent me some books: they 
are not yet come to hand, but I hear 
they are on the way. 

Wishing you all success in your pro- 
gress in the path of fame; and that 
you may equally escape the danger of 
stumbling through incautious speed, 
or losing ground through loitering 
neglect, I am, &c., 

R. R 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



No. CLXX. 
TO MR. JOHN LOGAN.* 

JEllisland, near Dumfries, Aug. 7, 1789. 

Dear Sir, — I intended to have writ- 
ten you long ere now, and as I told 
you I had gotten three stanzas and a 
' half on my way in a poetic epistle to 
you; but that old enemy of all good 
y works, the devil, threw me into a pro- 
l saic mire, and for the soul of me I can- 
' not get out of it. 1 dare not write you 

• a long letter, as I am going to intrude 
' on your time with a long ballad. I 
'i have, as you will shortly see, finished 
I " The Kirk's Alarm; " but now that is 

• done, and tha.t I have laughed once or 
\ twice at the conceits in some of the 
*; stanzas, I am determined not to let it get 

into the public; so I send you this copy, 
the first that I have sent to Ayrshire, 
except some few of the stanzas, which 
I wrote off in embryo for Gavin Hamil- 
ton, under the express provision and 
request that you will only read it to a 
few of us, and do not on any account 
give, or permit to be taken, any copy 
of the ballad. If I could be of any ser- 
vice to Dr. M'Gill, I would do it, 
though it should be at much greater 
expense than irritating a few bigoted 
' priests; but I am afraid serving him 
in his present embari^as is a task too 
hard for me. I have enemies enow, 
God knows, though I do not wantonly 
add to the number. Still, as I think 
there is some merit in two or three of 
^ the thoughts, I send it to you as a 
' " small but sincere testimony how much 
. ' and with what respectful esteem, I 
am, dear sir, your obliged humble ser- 
vant, 

R. B. 



No. CLXXL 
TO MR. 



Ellisland, Sept. 1789. 
My dear Sir, — The hurry of a far- 
mer in this particular season, and the 
indolence of a poet at all times and 



* Of Knockshinnock, in Glen Afton, Ayr- 
elxire. 



will, I hope, plead my excuse 
for neglecting so long to answer your 
obliging letter of the 5th of August. 

That you have done well in quitting 

your laborious concern in , I do 

not doubt; the weighty reasons you 
mention were, 1 hope, very, and de- 
servedly indeed, weighty ones, and 
your health is a matter of the last im- 
portance; but whether the remaining 
proprietors of the paper have also 
done well is what I much doubt. 
The , so far as I was a reader, ex- 
hibited such a brilliancy of point, 
such an elegance of paragraph, and 
such a variety of intelligence, that 
I can hardly conceive it possible to 
continue a daily paper in the same de- 
gree of excellence: but if there was a 
man who had abilities equal to th« 
task, that man's assistance the pro- 
prietors have lost. 

When I received your letter I waf 

transcribing for my letter to th« 

magistrates of the Canongate, Edin* 
burgh, begging their permission ta 
place a tombstone over poor Fergus- 
son, and their edict in consequence oi 
my petition, but now I shall send them 

to . Poor Fergusson! If there 

be a life beyond the grave, which I 
trust there is; and if there be a good 
God presiding over all nature, which I 
am sure there is; thou art now enjoy- 
ing existence in a glorious world, 
where worth of the heart alone is dis- 
tinction in the man; where riches, de- 
prived of all their pleasure -purchasing 
powers, return to their native sordid 
matter; where titles and honours are 
the disregarded reveries of an idle, 
dream: and where that heavy virtue, 
which is the negative consequence of 
steady dulness, and those thoughtless, 
though often destructive, follies, which 
are the unavoidable aberrations of 
frail human nature, will be thrown 
into equal oblivion as if they had never 
been ! 

Adieu, my dear sir! So soon as 
your present views and schemes are 
concentrated in an aim, I shall be glad 
-to hear from you; as your welfare an<} 
'happiness is by no means a subject in- 



different to yours. 



R.B, 



440 



BtmNS' WOUKS. 



No. CLXXIL 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Sept. 6, 1789. 

Dear Madam, — I have mentioned 
in my last my appointment to the Ex- 
cise, and the birth of little Frank; 
who, by the by, 1 trust will be no dis- 
credit to the honourable name of Wal- 
lace,* as he has a fine manly counten- 
ance, and a figure that might do credit 
to a little fellow two months older; 
and likewise an excellent good temper, 
though when he pleases he has a pipe 
only not quite so loud as the horn that 
his immortal namesake blew as a sig- 
nal to take out the pin of Stirling 
bridge. 

I had some time ago an epistle, part 
poetic, and part prosaic, from your 
poetess, Mrs. J. Little, a very ingeni- 
ous but modest composition,! I should 



* This child, named Francis Wallace, after 
Mrs. Dunlop, died at the early age of four- 
teen. 

t The following letter accompanied Miss 
Janet Little's poetical epistle : — 

Loudon House, July 12, 1789. 
Sir :— Though I have not the happiness of 
being personally acquainted with you, yet 
amongst the number of those who have read 
and admired your publications, may I be per- 
mitted to trouble you with this ? You must 
know, sir, I am somewhat in love with the 
Muses, though I cannot boast of any favours 
they have deigned to confer upon me as yet ; 
my situation in life has been very much 
against me as to that. I have spent some 
years in and about Ecclefechan, (where my 
parents resided,) in the station of a servant, 
and am now come to Loudon House, at pres- 
ent possessed by Mrs. ; she is daughter 

to Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, whom I under- 
stand you are particularly acquainted with. 
As I had the pleasure of perusing your poems, 
I felt a partiality for the author, which I 
should not have experienced had you been in 
a more dignified station. I wrote a few verses 
of address to you, which I did not then think 
of ever presenting: but as fortune seems to 
have favoured me in this, by bringing me in- 
to a family by whom you are well known, and 
much esteemed, and where, perhaps, I may 
have an opportunity of seeing you, I shall, in 
hopes of your future friendship, take the lib- 
erty to transcribe them : — 

Fair fa' the honest rustic swain, 
The pride o' a' our Scottish plain ; 
Thou gies us joy to hear thy strain, 
And notes sae sweet ; 



have written her as she requested, but 
for the hurry of this new business. 
I have heard of her and her composi- 
tions in this country; and I am happy 
to add, always to the honour of hel 

Old Ramsay's shade revived again, 
In thee we greet. 

Loved Thalia, that delightfu' muse, 
Seem'd lang shut up as a recluse ; 
To all she did her aid refuse. 

Since Allan's day ; 
Till Burns arose, then did she choose 

To grace his lay. 

To hear thy sang all ranks desire, 
Sae weel you strike the dormant lyre, 
Apollo with poetic fire 

Thy breast doth warm, 
And critics silently admire 

Thy art to charm. 

Caesar and Luath weel can speak, 
'Tis pity e'er their £;abs should steek. 
But into human nature keek, 

And knots unravel : 
To hear their lectures once a week, 

Nine miles I'd traveL 

Thy dedication to G. H., 

An unco bonnie hame-spun speech, 

Wi' winsome glee the heart can teach 

A better lesson, 
Than servile bards, who fawn and fleech, 

Like beggar's messon. . 

When slighted love becomes your theme, 
And woman's faithless vows you blame, 
With so much pathos you exclaim, 

In your Lament ; 
But, glanced by the most frigid dame, 

She would relent. 

The daisy, too, ye sing wi' skill. 
And weel ye praise the whisky gill ; 
In vam I blunt my feckless quill. 

Your fame to raise ; 
While echo sounds frae ilka hill, 

To Burns' praise. 

Did Addison or Pope but hear. 
Or Sam, that critic most severe, 
A ploughboy sing wi' throat sae clear. 

They, in a rage. 
Their works would a' in pieces tear. 

And curse your page. 

Sure Milton's eloquence were faint. 
The beauties of your verse to paint: 
My rude unpolish'd strokes but taint. 

Their brilliancy: 
The attempt would doubtless vex a saint 

And weel may thee. 

The task I'll drop, wi' heart sincere. 
To Heaven present my humble prayer. 
That all the blessings mortals share, 

May be by turns 
Dispensed by an indulgent care 

To Robert Burns! 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



441 



character. The fact is, I know not 
well how to write to her; I should sit 
down to a sheet of paper that I knew 
not how to stain, I am no daub at fine- 
drawn letter- writing; and, except when 
prompted by friendship or gratitude, 
or, which happens extremely rarely, 
inspired by the Muse (I know not her 
name) that presides over epistolary 
writing, I sit down, when necessitated 
to write, as I would sit down to beat 
hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20th 
August struck me with the most mel- 
ancholy concern for the state of your 
mmd at present. 

Would I could write you a letter of 
comfort; I would sit down to it with 
as much pleasure as I would to write 
an epic poem of my own composition 
that should equal the Iliad. Religion, 
my dear friend, is the true comfort ! 
A strong persuasion in a future state 
of existence; a proposition so obviously 
probable that, setting- revelation aside, 
every nation and people, so far as 
investigation has reached, for at 
least near four thousand years, have 
in some mode or other firmly believed 
it. In vain would we reason and pre- 
tend to doubt, I have myself done so 
to a very daring pitch; but when I re- 
flected that I was opposing the most 
ardent wishes and the most darling 
hopes of good men, and flying in the 
face of all human belief in all ages, I 
was shocked at my own conduct. 

I know not whether I have ever sent 
you the following lines, or if you have 
ever seen them ; but it is one of my 
favourite quotations, wliich. I keep con- 
stantly by me in my progress through 
. life, in the language of the book of 
Job, 

" Against the day of battle and of war "— 
spoken of religion: — 
*"Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morn- 
ing bright, 

'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night. 

When wealth forsakes us, and when friends 
are few, 

When friends are faithless, or when foes 
pursue ; [smart, 

"Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the 

Disarms affliction, or repels his dart ; 

Within the breast bids purest raptures rise. 

Bids smiling conscience spread her cloud- 
less §kie5. 



I have been busy with "Zeluco." 
The Doctor is so obliging as to request 
my opinion of it; and I have been re- 
volving in my mind some kind of 
criticisms on novel-writing, but it is a 
depth beyond my research. I shall, 
however, digest my thoughts on the 
subject as well as I can, " Zeluco" is 
a most sterling performance. 

Farewell ! A Bieu, le hon Dieu, je 
vous commende ! 

R. B. 



No. CLXXIII. 
TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, CARSE. 

Ellisland, Oct. i6, 1789. 

Sm, — Big with the idea of^ this im- 
portant day at Friars* Carse, I have 
watched the elements and skies, in 
the full persuasion that they would 
announce it to the astonished world 
by some phenomena of terrific portent. 
Yesternight until a very late hour did 
I wait with anxious horror for the ap- 
pearance of some comet firing half the 
sky; or aerial armies of sanguinary 
Scandinavians, darting athwart the 
startled heavens, rapid as the ragged 
lightning, and horrid as those convul- 
sions of nature that bury nations. 

The elements, however, seem to 
take the matter very quietly: they did 
not even usher in this morning with 
triple suns and a shower of blood, sym- 
bolical of the three potent heroes, and 
the mighty claret-shed of the day.— . 
For me, as Thomson in his " Winter* 
says of the storm, I shall " Hear aston- 
ished, and astonished sing" 

The whistle and the man ; I sing 
The man that won the whistle, &C. 

Here are we met, three merry boys. 
Three merry boys I trow are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been. 
And mony mae we hope to be. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 
A cuckold coward loon is he ; 

Wha last beside his'chair shall fa" 
He is the king amang us three.* 

To leave the heights of Parnassus 
and cf .ne to the humble vale of prose 



* 3ee the poem o| " The WhisUe," p. (^ 



442 



BURNS' WORKS. 



— I have some misgivings that I take 
too much upon me, when I request you 
to get your guest. Sir Robert Lawrie, 
to frank the two enclosed covers for 
me, the one of them to Sir William 
Cunningham, of Robertlaud, Bart., at 
Kilmarnock, — the other to Mr. Allan 
Masterton, writing-master, Edinburgh. 
The first has a kindred claim on Sir 
Robert, as being a brother Baronet, 
and likewise a keen Foxite; the other 
is one of the worthiest men in the 
world, and a man of real genius; so, 
allow me to say he has a fraternal 
claim on you. I want them franked 
for to-morrow, as 1 cannot get them to 
the post to-night. — I shall send a 
servant again for them in the evening. 
Wishing that y»irr head may be crown- 
ed with 1/iureis to-aight, and free from 
aches to-morrow, I have the honour to 
be, sir, your deeply-indebted humble 
servaai, 

R. B. 



No. CLXXIV. 

TO THE SAME. 

Ellisland, 1789. 

Sm, — I wish from my inmost soul 
it were in my power to give you a more 
substantial gratification and return for 
all the goodness to the poet, than tran- 
scribing a few of his idle rhymes. 
However, "an old song," though to 
a proverb an instance of insignificance, 
is generally the old coin a poet has 
to pay with. 

If my poems which I have tran- 
scribed, and mean still to transcribe, 
into your book, were equal to the 
grateful respect and high esteem I 
bear for the gentleman to whom. I pre- 
sent them, they would be the finest 
poems in the language; as they are, 
they will at least be a testimony with 
what sincerity I have the honour to be, 
Rif; your (ievQted humble servant, 

It. B, 



No. CLXXV. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, Nov. i, 1789. 

My DE.UI Friend, — I had written 
you long ere now, could 1 have guessed 
where to find you, for I am sure you 
have more good sense than to waste the 
precious days of vacation time in the 
dirt of business and Edinburgh. Wher- 
ever you are, God bless you, and lead 
you not into temptation, but deliver 
you from evil 1 

I do not know if I have informed you 
that I am now appointed to an Excise 
division, in the middle of which my 
house and farm lie. In this I was ex- 
tremely lucky. Without ever having 
been an expectant, as they call their 
journeymen excisemen, I was directly 
planted down to all intents and pur- 
poses an officer of Excise; there to 
flourish and bring forth fruits worthy 
of repentance. 

I know not how the word exciseman, 
or still more opprobrious ganger, will 
sound in your ears. I too have seen 
the day when my auditory nerves 
would have felt very delicately on this 
subject; but a wife and children are 
things which have a wonderful power 
in blunting these kind of sensations- 
Fifty pounds a year for life, and a pro- 
vision for widows and orphans, you 
will allow is no bad settlement for a 
poet. For the ignominy of the profes- 
sion, I have the encouragement which 
I once heard a recruiting-sergeant give' 
to a numerous, if not to a respectable, 
audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock: 
" Gentlemen, for your further and bet- 
ter encouragement, I can assure you 
that our regiment is the most black- 
guaid corps under the Crown, and con- 
sequently with us an honest fellow 
has the surest chance of preferment," 

You need not doubt that I find sev- 
eral very unpleasant and disagreeable 
circumstances in my business; but I 
am tired with and disgusted at the Ian- 
guage of complaint against the evils of 
life. Human existence in the most 
favourable situations does not abound 
with pleasures, and has its inconven. 
iences m^ Ulsj capricious fooljsl; main 



GENERAl. CORRESPONDENCE. 



443 



mistakes these inconveniences and ills 
tes if tliey were the peculiar property 
of his particular situation; and hence 
that eternal fickleness, that love of 
change, which has ruined, and daily 
does ruin many a fine fellow, as well 
as many a blockhead, and is almost 
without exception a constant source of 
disappointment and misery. 

1 long to hear from you how you go 
on — not so much in business as in life. 
Are you pretty well satisfied with your 
own exertions, and tolerably at ease in 
your internal retiections V 'Tis much 
to be a great character as a lawyer, 
but beyond comparison more to be a 
great character as a man. That you 
may be both the one and the other is 
the earnest wish, and that you icill be 
both is the firm persuasion, of, my 
dear sir, &c., 

R. B. 



No. CLXXVI. 
TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

Ellisland, Nov. 4, 1789. 
I HAVE been so hurried, my ever- 
dear friend, that though I got both 
your letters, I have not been able to 
command an hour to answer them as I 
wished; and even now you are to look 
on this as merely confessing debt, and 
craving days. Few things could have 
given me so much pleasure as the 
news that you were once more safe 
and sound on terra firma, and happy 
in that place where happiness is alone 
to be found, in the fireside circle. 
May the benevolent Director of all 
things peculiarly bless you in all those 
endearing connexions consequent on 
the tender and venerable names of 
husband and father ! I have indeed 
been extremely lucky in getting an ad- 
ditional income of £50 a year, while 
at the same time, the appointment will 
not cost me above £10 or £12 per an- 
num of expenses more than I must 
have inevitably incurred. The worst 
circumstance is that the Excise div- 
ision which I have got is so extensive 
—no less than ten parishes to ride over 



— and it abounds besides with so much 
business, that I can scarcely steal a 
spare moment. However, labour en- 
dears rest, and both together are ab- 
solutely necessary for the proper en- 
joyment of human existence. I can- 
not meet you anywhere. No less than 
an order from the Board of Excise at 
Edinburgh is necessary before I can 
have so much time as to meet you in 
Ayrshire. But do you come and see 
me. We must have a social day, and 
perhaps lengthen it out with half the 
night, before you go again to sea. 
You are the earliest friend I now have 
on earth, my brothers excepted: and 
is not that an endearing^circumstance ? 
When you and I first met, we were at 
the green period of human life. The 
twig would easily take a bend, but 
would as easily return to its former 
state. You and I not only took a mu- 
tual bent, but, by the melancholy, 
though strong influence of being both 
of the family of the unfortunate, we 
were entwined with one another in 
our growth towards advanced age; 
and blasted be the sacrilegious hand 
that shall attempt to undo the union ! 
You and I must have one bumper to 
my favourite toast, "May the com- 
panions of our youth be the friends of 
our old age ?" Come and see me one 
year; I shall see you at Port Glasgow 
the next, and if we can contrive to 
have a gossiping between our two bed- 
fellows, it will be so much additional 
pleasure. Mrs. Burns joins me in 
kind compliments to you and Mrs, 
Brown. Adieu ! — I am ever, my dear 
sir, yours, 

R. B. 



No. CLXXVII. 

TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF 

FINTRAY. 

Dec. 9, 1789. 

Sir, — I have a good while had a 
wish to trouble you with a letter, and 
had certainly done it long ere now, 
but fur a humiliating something that 
throws cold water on the resolution; 
as if one should say, " You have 



444 



^tJIlNS' WORKS. 



found Mr. Graham a very powerful 
and kind friend indeed, and that in- 
terest he is so kindly taking in your 
concerns you ought, by everything in 
your power, to keep alive and cherish." 
Now, though since Uod has thought 
proper to make one powerful and an- 
other helpless, the connexion of obliger 
and obliged is all fair: and though my 
being under your patronage is to me 
highly honourable; yet, sir, allow me 
to Hatter myself that, as a poet and an 
honest man, you first interested your- 
self in my welfare, and principally as 
such still you permit me to approach 
you. 

I have found the Excise business go 
on a great deal smoother with me than 
I expected; owing a good deal to the 
generous friendship of Mr. Mitchell, 
my collector, and the kind assistance 
of Mr. Findlater, my supervisor. I 
dare to be honest, and I fear no labour. 
Nor do I find my hurried life greatly 
inimical to my correspondence with 
the Muses. Their visits to me, indeed, 
and I believe to most of their acquain- 
tance, like the visits of * good angels, 
are short and far between: but I meet 
them now and then, as I jog through 
the hills of Nithsdale, just as I used 
to do on the banks of the Ayr. I take 
the liberty to enclose you a few baga- 
telles, all of them the productions of 
ray leisure thoughts in my Excise 
rides. 

If you know, or have ever seen Cap- 
tain Grose, the antiquary, you will 
enter into any humour that is in the 
verses on him. Perhaps you have seen 
them before, as I sent them to a Lon- 
don newspaper. Though I daresay you 
have none of the solemn-league-and 
covenant fire, which shone so conspic- 
uous in Lord George Gordon and the 
Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you 
m have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of 
the clergymen of Ayr, and his hereti- 
cal book. God help him, poor man ! 
Though he is one of the worthiest, as 
well as one of the ablest, of the whole 
priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in 
every sense of that ambiguous term, 
yet the poor Doctor and his numerous 
family are in imminent danger of being 



thrown out to the mercy of the winter- 
winds. The enclosed ballad on that 
business is, I confess, too local, but I 
laughed myself at some conceits in it, 
though I am convinced in my con- 
science that there are a good many 
heavy stanzas in it too. 

The election ballad, as you will see, 
alludes to the present canvass in our 
string of boroughs, I do not believe 
there will be such a hard-run match 
in the whole general election. 

1 am too little a man to have any po- 
litical attachments; I am deeply indebt- 
ed to, and have the warmest veneration 
for, individuals of both parties; but a 
man who has it in his power to be the 
father of a country, and who . . . ., 
is a character that one cannot speak of 
with patience.* 

Sir J. J. does "what man can do/' 
but yet I doubt his fate.f 



No. CLXXVIIL 
MRS. DUNLOP. 

• Ellisland, Dec. 13, 1789. 
Many thanks, dear madam, for your 
sheetf ul of rhymes. Though at present 
I am below the veriest prose, yet from 
you everything pleases. I am groaning 
under the miseries of a diseased nervous 
system; a system, the state of which 
is most conducive to our happiness— 
or the most productive of our misery. 
For now near three weeks I have been 
so ill with a nervous headache that I 
have been obliged for a time to give up 
my Excise books, being scarce able to 
lift my head, much less to ride on'ie a 
week over ten muir parishes. What is 
man? To-day, in the luxuriance of 
health, exulting in the enjoyment of 
existence; in a few days, perhaps in a 
few hours, loaded with conscious pain- 
ful being, counting the tardy pace of 
the lingering moinents by the reper- 
cussions of anguish, and refusing or 



* Dr. Currie has here obviously suppressed a 
bitter allusion to the Duke of Queensbury. 

t The enclosures in this letter were " Tha 
Kirk's Alarm," the verses on Grose, and ttxQ 
first ballad on Captaiu Miller's electioa. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



445 



denied a comforter. Day follows night, 
and night comes after day, only to 
curse him with life which gives him 
no pleasure; and yet the awful, dark 
tenuination of that life is something at 
which he recoils. 

•'Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 
Disclose the secret 

IVhat 'tis you are^ and 7ve must shortly bt ? 

'Tis no matter, [are." 

A little time will make us learn'd as you 

I Can it be possible that when I resign 
this frail, feverish being, I shall still 
find myself in conscious existence? 
When the last gasp of agony has an- 
nounced that I am no more to those 
that knew me; and the few who loved 
me; when the cold, stiffened, uncon- 
scious, ghastly corse is resigned into 
the earth, to be the prey of unsightly 
reptiles, and to become in time a trod- 
den clod, shall I be yet wann in life, 
seeing and seen, enjoying and en- 
joyed ? Ye venerable sages, and holy 
flamens, is there probability in your 
conjectures, truth in your stories, of 
another world beyond death; or are 
they all alike, baseless visions, and 
fabricated fables ? If there is another 
life, it must be only for the just, the 
benevolent, the amiable, and the hu- 
mane; what a flattering idea, then, is 
a world to come ! Would to God I as 
firmly believed it as I ardently wish it ! 
There I should meet an aged parent, 
now at rest from the many buffetings 
of an evil world, against which he so 
long and so bravely struggled. There 
should I meet the friend, the disin- 
terested friend of my early life; the 
man who rejoiced to see me, because 
he loved me and could serve me. — 
" Muir,* thy weaknesses were the aber- 
rations of human nature, but thy heart 
glowed with everything generous, 
•manly, and noble; and if eyer emana- 
; tion from the all-good Being animated 
a human form, it was thine ! There 
should I, with speechless agony of 
"rapture, again recognise my lost, my 
ever- dear Mary ! whose bosom was 
fraught with truth, honour, constancy, 
lAnd love. 



^ ♦ Muir was one of the poet's earliest friends. 



" My Mary, dear departed shade ' 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? [breast?" 
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 

Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of char- 
acters ! I trust Thou art no impostor, 
and that thy revelation of blissful 
scenes of existence beyond death and 
the grave is not one of the many im- 
positions which time after time have 
been palmed on credulous man- 
kind. I trust that in Thee ' ' shall all 
the families of th e earth be blessed," 
by being yet connected together in a 
better world, where every tie that 
bound heart to heart, in this state of 
existence, shall be, far beyond our 
present conceptions, more endearing. 

I am a good deal inclined to think 
with those who maintain that what are 
called nervous affections are in fact 
diseases of the mind. I cannot reason, 
I cannot think; and but to you I would 
not venture to write anything above an 
order to a cobbler. You have felt too 
much of the ills of life not to sympa- 
thise with a diseased wretch, who has 
impaired more than half of any facul- 
ties he possessed. Your goodness will 
excuse this distracted scrawl, which 
the writer dare scarcely read, and 
which he would throw into the fire, 
were he able to write anything better, 
or indeed anything at all. 

Rumour told me something of a son 
of yours who was returned from the 
East or West Indies. If you have got- 
ten news from James or Anthony, it 
was cruel in you not to let me know ; 
as I promise you, on the sincerity of a 
man, who is weary of one v/orld, and 
anxious about another, that scarce any- 
thing could give me so much pleasure 
as to he^r of any good thing befalling 
my honoured friend. 

If you have a minute's leisure, take 
up your pen in pity to le pauvre mis. 
erahle, R. B. 



No. CLXXIX. 

TO LADY WriNIFRED] MFAX- 
WELL] CONSTABLE. 

EllislanD, Dec. i6, 1789. 
My Lady, — In vain have I from day 
to day expected to hear from MiSi 



446 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Young, as she promised me at Dals- 
winton that she would do me the hon- 
our to introduce me at Tinwald ; and 
it was impossible, not from your lady- 
ship's accessibility, but from my own 
feelings, that I could go alone. Lately , 
indeed, Mr. Maxwell of Carruchen, iu 
his usual goodness, offered to accom- 
pany me, when an unlucky indisposi- 
tion on my part hindered my embrac- 
ing the opportunity. To court the 
notice or the tables of the great, except 
where I sometimes have had a little 
matter to ask of them, or more often 
the pleasanter task of witnessing my 
gratitude to them, is what I never 
have done, and I trust never shall do. 
But with your ladyship I have the 
honour to be connected by one of the 
strongest and most endearing ties in 
the whole moral world. Common suf- 
ferers in a cause where even to be un- 
fortunate is glorious, the cause of 
heroic loyalty ! Though my fathers 
had not illustrious honours and vast 
properties to hazard in the contest, 
though they left their humble cottages 
only to add so many units more to the 
unnoted crowd that followed their 
leaders, yet what they could they did, 
and what they had they lost : with un- 
shaken firmness and unconcealed polit- 
ical attachments, they shogk hands 
with ruin for what they esteemed the 
cause of their king and their country. 
This language and the enclosed verses 
are for* for your ladyship's eye alone. 
Poets are not very famous for their 
prudence : but as I can do nothing for 
a cause which is now nearly no more, 
I do not wish to hurt myself. I have 
the honour to be, my lady, your lady- 
ship's obliged and obedient humble 
servant, R. B. 



No. CLXXX. 

TO PROVOST MAXWELL, OF 

LOCHMABEN. 

Ellisland, Dec. 20, 1789. 
Dear PROVoar,— As my friend Mr. 
Graham goes for your good town to- 

* Those addressed to Mr. William Tytler.— 
See p. zio. 



morrow, I cannot resist the tempta- 
tion to send you a few lines, and as I 
have nothing to say, I have chosen 
this sheet of foolscap, and begun as 
you see at the top of thti first page, 
because I have ever observed that 
when once people have fairly set out 
they know not where to stop. Now 
that my first sentence is concluded, I 
have nothing to do but to pray Heaven 
to help me on to another. Shall I 
write you on politics or religion, 
two master-subjects for your sayers of 
nothing ? Of the first I dare say by 
this time you are nearly surfeited ; and 
for the last, whenever they may talk 
of it who make it a kind of company 
concern, I never could endure it beyond 
a soliloquy. I might write you on 
farming, on building, on marketing, 
but my poor distracted mind is so torn, 
so jaded, so racked, and bedeviled 
with the task of the superlatively 
damned to make one guinea do the busi- 
ness of three, that 1 detest, abhor, and 
swoon at the very word business, 
though no less than four letters of my 
very short surname are in it. 

Well, to make the matter short, I 
shall betake myself to a subject ever 
fruitful of themes ; a subject the tur- 
tle feast of the sons of Satan, and the 
delicious secret sugar plum of the 
babes of grace — a subject sparkling 
with all the jewels that wit can find in 
the mines of genius ; and pregnant 
with all the stores of learning from 
Mose§ and Confucius to Franklin and 
Priestley — in short, may it please your 
lordship, I intend to write. . . . 

[Here the poet inserted a song which 
can only he sung at times when the 
ininch howl has done its duty, and 
wild icit is set free.'] 

If at any time you expect a field- 
day * in your town, a day when dukes, 
earls, and knights pay their court t; 
weavers, tailors, and cobblers, I should 
like to know of it two or three days 
beforehand. It is not that I care three 
skips of a cur dog for the politics, but 
I should like to see such an exhibition 

*The poet alludes to the Miller and Jui. 
stone contest. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



447 



of human nature. If you meet with 
that worthy old veteran in religion and 
good fellowship, Mr. Jeffrey,* or any 
of his amiable family, 1 beg you will 
give them my best compliments. 

R. B. 



No. CLXXXI. 

TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 

1790. 

Sra, — The following circumstance 
has, I believe, been omitted in the sta- 
tistical account transmitted to you of 
the parish of Dunscore in Nithsdale. 
I beg leave to send it to you, because 
it is new and may be useful. How 
far it is deserving of a place in your 
patriotic publication you are the best 
judge. 

To store the minds of the lower 
classes with useful knowledge is cer- 
tainly of very great importance, both 
to them as individuals, and to society 
at large. Giving them a turn for 
reading and reflection is giving them a 
source of innocent and laudable 
amusement; and besides, raises them 
to a more dignified degree in the scale 
of rationality. Impressed with this 
Idea, a gentleman in this parish, 
Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, 
set on foot a species of circulating li- 
brary, on 11 plan so simple as to be 
practicable in any corner of the coun- 
try; and so useful as to deserve the 
notice of every country gentleman who 
thinks the improvement of that part of 
his own species, whom chance has 
thrown into the humble walks of the 
peasant and the artisan, a matter 
worthy of his attention. 

Mr. Riddel got a number of his own 
tenants and farming neighbours to 
form themselves into a society for the 
purpose of having a library among 
themselves. They entered into a legal 
engagement to abide by it for three 
years; with a saving clause or two, in 

* The Reverend Andrew Jeffrey, minister 
of Lochmaben, and father of the heroine of 
that exquisite song, "■ The Blue-Eyed Lass " 
<" I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen."} 



case of a removal to a distance, or 
death. Each member, at his entry, 
paid five shillings; and at eacb of their 
meetings, which were held every 
fourth Saturday, sixpence more. With 
their entry-money, and the credit which 
they took on the faith of their future 
funds, they laid in a tolerable stock 
of books at the commencement. What 
authors they vv^ere to purchase was al , 
ways decided by the majority. At I 
every meeting, all the books, under 
certain fines and forfeitures, by way 
of penalty were to be produced ; and 
the members had their choice of the 
volumes in rotation. He whose name 
stood'for that night first on the list 
had his choice of what volume he 
pleased in the whole collection; the 
second had his choice after the first ; 
the third after the second, and so on to 
the last. At next meeting, he who 
had been first on the list at the pre- 
ceding meeting was last at this; he 
who had been second was first ; and so 
on through the whole three years. At 
the expiration of the engagement, the 
Dooks were sol(f* by auction, but only 
among the members themselves; each 
man had his share of the common 
stock, in money or in books, as he 
chose to be a purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little 
society, which was formed under Mr. 
Riddel's patronage, what with bene- 
factions of books from him, and what 
with their own purchases, they had 
collected together upwards of one 
hundred and fifty volumes. It will 
easily be guessed that a good deal of 
trash would be bought. Among the 
books, however, of this little library, 
were Blair's Sermoiis, Robertson's 
History of Scotland, Hume's History oj 
of the Stuarts, the Spectator, Idler, 
Adventurer, Mirror, Lounger, Ob- 
server, " Man of Feeling," " Man 
of the World," " Chrysal," ' Ho?, 
Quixote,^' " Joseph Andrews," &c. / 
peasant who can read and enjoy such 
books is certainly a much superior 
being to his neighbour, who perhaps 
stalks beside his team, very little re- 
moved, except in shape, from tljQ 
brutes he drives, 



448 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Wishing your patriotic exertions 
their so- much-merited success, I am, 
sir, your humble servant, 

A Peasant. 



No. CLXXXII. 

rO CHARLES SHARPE, ESQ., OF 
HODDAM. 

(under a fictitious signature, 

enclosing a bali^ad. 

1790 OR 1791.) 

It is true, sir, you are a gentleman 
of rank and fortune, and I am a poor 
devil; you are a feather in the cap of 
society, and I am a very hobnail in his 
shoes; yet I have the honour to belong 
to the same family with you, and on 
that score I now address you. You 
will perhaps suspect that I am going 
to claim affinity with the ancient and 
honorable house of Kirkpatrick. No, 
no, sir; I cannot indeed be properly 
said to belong to any house, or even 
any province or kingdom; as my 
mother, who for many years was 
spouse to a marching regiment, gave 
me into this bad world aboard the 
packet boat, somewhere between 
Donaghadee and Portpatrick. By our 
common family, I mean, sir, the family 
of the Muses, I am a fiddler and a 
poet; and you, I am told, play an ex- 
quisite violin, and have a standard 
taste in the belles lettres. The other 
day, a brother catgut gave me a charm- 
ing Scots air of your composition. If 
I was pleased with the tune, I was in 
raptures with the title you have given 
it; and, taking up the idea, I have spun 
it into the three stanzas enclosed. Will 
you allow me, sir, to present you them, 
as the dearest offspring that a misbe- 
gotten son of poverty and rhyme has to 
give ? I have a longing to take you 
by the hand and unburthen my heart 
by saying, "Sir, I honour you as a man 
who supports the dignity of human 
nature, amid an age when frivolity 
and avarice have, between them, de- 
based us below the brutes that perish!" 
But, *lsis, sir, to me you are unap- 



proachable. It is true, the Muses 
baptized me in Castalian streams, but 
the thoughtless gipsies forgot to give 
me a name. As the sex have served 
many a good fellow, the Nine have 
given me a great deal of pleasure, 
but, bewitching jades ! they have 
beggared me. Would they but spare 
me a little of their cast linen ! Were 
it only in my power to say that I 
have a shirt on my back ! But the 
idle wenches, like Solomon's lilies, 
"they toil not, neither do they spin;'' 
so I must e'en continue to tie my rem- 
nant of a cravat, like the hangman's 
rope, round my n^ked throat, and 
coax my galligaskins to keep together 
their many-coloured fragments. As 
to the affair of shoes, I have given 
that up. My pilgrimages in my bal- 
lad trade, from town to town, and on 
your stony-hearted turnpikes, too, are 
what not even the hide of Job's behe- 
moth could bear. The coat on my 
back is no more: I shall not speak evil 
of the dead. It would be equally un- 
handsome and ungrateful to find fault 
with my old surtout, which so kindly 
supplies and conceals the want of that 
coat. My hat indeed is a great fa- 
vourite; and though I got it literally 
for an old song, I would not exchange 
it for the best beaver in Britain. I 
was, during several years, a kind of 
factotum servant to a country clergy- 
man, where I pickt up a good many 
scraps of learning, particularly in 
some branches of the mathematics. 
Whenever I feel inclined to rest my- 
self on my way, I take my seat under 
a hedge, laying my poetic wallet on 
the one side, and my fiddle-case on the 
other, and placing my hat between my 
legs, 1 can by means of its brim, or 
rather brims, go through the whole 
doctrine of the conic sections. 

However, sir, don't let me mislead 
you, as if I would interest your pity. 
Fortune has so much forsaken me 
that she has taught me to live without 
her; and, amid all my rags and pov- 
erty, I am as independent, and much 
more happy than a monarch of the 
world. According to the hackneyed 
I metaphor, I value the several actow 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



449 



in the great drama of life simi^ly as 
they act their parts. I can look on 
[Jl a worthless fellow of a clul^ie with un- 
qualified contempt, and can regard an 
honest scavenger with sincere respect. 
As you, sir, go through your role with 
such distinguished merit, permit me 
to make one in the chorus of universal 
applause, and assure you that with the 
highest respect, 1 have the honour to 
be, &c. 



No. CLXXXIII. 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Ellisland, Jan. ii, 1790. 

Dear Brother, — I mean to take 
advantage of thti frank, though I have 
not in my present frame of mind much 
appetite for exertion in writing. My 
nerves are in a cursed state. I feel 
that horrid hypochondria pervading 
every atom of both body and soul. 
This farm has undone my enjoyment 
of myself. It is a Riinous affair on all 
hands. But let it go to hell ! Til 
fight it out and be off with it. 

We have gotten a set of very de- 
cent players here just now. I have 
seen them an evening or two. David 
Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me by the 
manager of the company, a Mr. Suth- 
erland, who is a man of apparent 
worth. On New-year-day evening I 
gave him the following prologue,* 
which he spouted to his audience 
with applause. 

I can no more. If once I was clear 
of this cursed farm, I should respire 
more at ease. 

R. B. 



No. CLXXXIV. 

TO WILLIAM DUNBAR, W. S. 

Ellisland, Jan. 14, 1790. 

Since we are here creatures of a day, 

since "a few summer days, and a few 

winter nights, and the life of man is 

at an end," why, my dear, much-es- 



♦ iSee prologue, p. J 24, 



teemed sir, should you and I let negli- 
gent indolence, for 1 know it is nothing 
worse, ctep in between us and bar the 
enjoyment of a mutual correspondence? 
We are not shapen out of the common, 
heavy, methodical clod, the elemental 
stuff" of the plodding selfish race, the 
sons of arithmetic and prudence; our 
feelings and hearts are not benumbed 
anjd poisoned by the cursed influence 
of riches, which, whatever blessings 
they may be in other respects, are no 
friends to the nobler qualities of the 
heart: in the name of random sensi- 
bility, then, let never the moon 
change on our silence any more. I 
have had a tract of bad health most 
part of the winter, else you had heard 
from me long ere now. Thank 
Heaven, I am now got so much- 
better as to be able to partake a little 
in the enjoyments of life. 

Our friend Cunningham will per- 
haps have told you of my going into 
tho Excise. The truth is, I found it a 
very convenient business to have £50 
per annum, nor have I yet felt any of 
these mortifying circumstances in it 
that I was led to fear. 

Feb. 2. — I have not for sheer hurry 
of business, been able to spare five 
minutes to finish my letter. Besides 
my farm business, I ride on my Excise 
matters at least 200 miles every week. 
I have not by any means given up the 
Muses. You will see in the 3d vol- 
ume of Johnson's Scots songs that I 
have contributed my mite there. 

But, my dear sir, little ones that 
look up to you for paternal protection 
are an important charge. I have al- 
ready two fine healthy stout little fel- 
lows, and I wish to throw some light 
upon them. I have a thousand rev- 
eries and schemes about tliera, and 
their future destiny. Not that I am 
a Utopian projector in these things. 
I am resolved never to breed up a son 
of mine to any of the learned profes- 
sions. I know the value of indepen- 
dence: and since I cannot give my 
sons an independent fortune, I shall 
give them an independent line of life. 
What a chaos of hurry, chance, and 
changes is this world when 0110 si^ 



450 



BURNS' WORKS. 



soberly down to reflect on it ! To a 
father, who himself knows the world, 
the thought that he shall have sons to 
usher into it must fill him with 
dread; but if he have daughters, the 
prospect in a thoughtful moment is 
apt to shock him. 

I hope Mrs. Fe>rdyce and the two 
young ladies are well. Do let me for- 
get that they are nieces of yours, 
and let me say that I never saw a 
more interesting, sweeter pair of sis- 
ters in my life. I am the fool of my 
feelings and attachments. I often take 
up a volume of my Spenser to realise 
you to my imagination, and think over 
the social scenes we have had together. 
God grant that there may be another 
world more congenial to honest fel- 
lows beyond this. A world where 
these rubs and plagues of absence, 
distance, misfortunes, ill health, &c., 
shall no more damp hilarity and di- 
vide friendship. This I know is your 
throng season, but half a page will 
much oblige, my dear sir, yours sin- 
cerely, 

R. B. 



No. CLXXXV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Jan. 25, 1790. 

It has been owing to unremitting 
hurry of business that I have not writ- 
ten to you, madam, long ere now. My 
health is greatly better, and I now be- 
gin once more to share in satisfaction 
and enjoyment with the rest of my 
fellow -creatures. 

Many thanks, my much-esteemed 
friend, for your kind letters; but why 
will you make me run the risk of be- 
ing contemptible and mercenary in my 
own eyes? When I pique myself on 
my independent spirit, I hope it is 
neither poetic licence, nor poetic rant; 
and I am so flattered with the honour 
you have done me, in making me your 
compeer in friendship and friendly 
correspondence, that I cannot, witliout 
pain and a degree of mortification, be 
reminded of the real inequality be 
tween our situations. 



Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, 
dear madam, in the good news of An- 
thony. Not only your anxiety about 
his fate, but my own esteem for such 
a noble, warm-hearted, manly young 
fellow, in the little I had of his ac- 
quaintance, has interested me deeply 
in his fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of 
the " Shipwreck," which you so muchj 
admire, is no more. After witnessing 
the dreadful catastrophe he so feel- 
ingly describes in his poem, and after 
weathering many hard gales of for- 
tune, he went to the bottom with the 
Aurora frigate! 

I forget what part of Scotland had 
the honour of giving him birth; but 
he was the son of obscurity and mis- 
fortune. He was one of those daring 
adventurous spirits, which Scotland, 
beyond any other country, is remark- 
able for producing. Little does the 
fond mother think, as she hangs de- 
lighted over the sweet little leech at 
her bosom, where the poor fellow may 
hereafter wander, and what may be his 
fate. I remember a stanza in an old 
Scottish ballad, which, notwithstand- 
ing its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly 
to the heart — 

*' Little did my mother think, 
That day she cradled me. 

What land I was to travel in, 
Or what death I should die !"* 

Old Scottish songs are, you know, a 
favourite study and pursuit of mine, 
and now I am on that subject, allow 
me to give you two stanzas of another 
old simple ballad, which I am sure 
will please you. The catastrophe of 
the piece is a poor ruined female, la- 
menting her fate. She concludes with 
this pathetic wish: — 

"Oh that my father had ne'er on me smiled; 
Oh that my mother had ne'er to me sun? ! 
Oh that my cradle had never been rock'd ! 
But that I had died when I was young ! 

Oh that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my winding-sheet; 
The clocks and the worms my bed-fellows a* 

And, oh, sae sound as I should sleep !" 

* This touching sentiment occurs in the BaU 
lad of the " Queen's Marie," or, as SOWC setl 
have it, " Mary Hamiltoa," 



GENERAL CORRESPONiJENCR 



451 



I do not remember, in all my read- 
ing, to have met with anything more 
truly the language of misery than the 
exclamation in the last line. Misery 
is like love; to speak its language truly, 
the author must have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor 
to give your little godson* the small- 
pox. They are 7'ife in the country, 
and I tremble for his fate. By the way, 
I cannot help congratulating you on 
his looks and spirit. Every person 
who sees hiin acknowledges him to be 
the finest, handsomest child he has 
ever seen. I am myself delighted with 
the manly swell of his little chest, and 
a certain miniature dignity in the car- 
riage of his head, and the glance of 
his fine black eye, which promise the 
undaunted gallantry of an independent 
mind. 

I thought to have sent you some 
rhymes, but time forbids. I promise 
you poetry until you are tired of it, 
next time I have the honour of assur- 
ing you how truly I am, «&c, 

R. B. 



No. CLXXXVI. 

TO MR. PETER HILL, 
BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH. 

Ellisland, Feb. 2, 1790. 
No ! I will not say one word about 
apologies or excuses for not writing — 
1 am a poor rascally ganger, condemn- 
ed to gallop at least 200 miles every 
week to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty 
barrels, and where can I find time to 
write to, or importance to interest any- 
body? The upbraidings of my con- 
science, nay, the upbraidings of my 
wife, have persecuted me on your ac- 
count these two or three months past. 
I wish to God I was a great man, that 
my correspondence might throw light 
upon you, to let the world see what 
you really are; and then I would make 
your fortune, without putting my hand 
in my pocket for you, which, like all 
other great men, 1 suppose I would 



* The bard's second son, Francis, 



avoid as much as possible. What are 
you doing, and how are you doing? 
Have you lately seen any of my few 
friends? What has become of the 
BOROUGH REFORM, or how is the fate 
of my poor namesake, Mademoiselle 
Burns decided ? O man ! but for thee 
and thy selfish appefites, and dishonest 
artifices, that beauteous form, and that 
once innocent and still ingenuous mind, 
might have shone conspicuous and 
lovely in the faithful wife, and the af- 
fectionate mother; and shall the un- 
fortunate sacrifice to thy pleasures have 
no claim on thy humanity ? * 

I saw lately in a review some ex- 
tracts from a new poem, called the 
"Village Curate ;" send it me. I want 
likewise a cheap copy of "The World." 
Mr. Armstrong, the young poet, who 
does me the honour to mention me so 
kindly in his works, please give him 
my best thanks for the copy of his 
book — I shall write him my first leisure 
hour. I like his poetry much, but I 
think his style in prose quite astonish- 
ing. 

Your book came safe, and I am go- 
ing to trouble you with further com- 
missions. I call it troubling you — 
because I want only books ; the cheap- 
est way, the best; so you may have to 
hunt for them in the evening auctions. 
I want Smollett's Works, for the sake 
of his incomparable humour. I have 
already "Roderick Random," and 
"Humphrey Clinker," "Peregrine 
Pickle," " Launcelot Greaves," and 
"Ferdinand, Count Fathom," I still 
want; but as I said, the veriest ordi- 
nary copies will serve me. I am nice 
only in the appearance of my poets. I 
forget the price of Cowper's Poems, 
but, I believe, I must have them. I 
saw the other day proposals for a pub- 
lication, entitled, " Banks' New and 
Complete Christian's Family Bible," 
printed for C. Cooke, Paternoster Row 
London. He promises, at least, to give 
in the work, I think it is three hun- 
dred and odd engravings, to which he 

* The frail female here alluded to had been 

the subject of some rather oppressive magis, 

terial proceedings, which took their character 

from Creech,and roused some public feeling 10 

I her behalf. 



453 



BtTBNS' ^ORIIB. 



has put the names of the first artists in 
London. You will know the character 
of the performance, as some numbers 
of it are publislied; and, if it is really 
what it pretends to be, set me down as a 
subscriber, and send me the pablished 
numbers. 

Let me hear from you, your first lei- 
sure minute, and trust me you shall 
in future liave no reason to complain 
of my silence. The dazzling perplex- 
ity of novelty will dissipate, and leave 
me to pursue my course in the quiet 
path of methodical routine. 

R. B. 



No. CLXXXVn. 
TO MR. W. NICOL. 

Ellisland, Feb. 9, 1790. 

My dear Sir, — That damned mare 
of yours is dead. I would freely have 
given her price to- have saved her: she 
has vexed me beyond description. In- 
debted as I was to your goodness beyond 
what I can ever repay, I eagerly grasp- 
ed at your offer to have the mare wiili 
me. That I might at least show my 
readiness in wishing to be grateful, I 
took every care of her in my power. 
She was never crossed for riding above 
half a score of times by me, or in my 
keeping. I drew her in the plough, 
one of three, for one poor week, I re 
fused fifty-five shillings for her, wliicli 
was the highest bode I could squeeze 
for her. I fed her up and had her in 
fine order for Dam fries fair; when, 
four or five days before the fair, she 
was seized with an unaccountable dis- 
order in the sinews, or somewhere in 
the bones of the neck, with a weakness 
or total want of power in her fillets, 
and in short the whole vertebrae of 
her spine seemed to be diseased and 
unhinged, and in eight-and- forty hours, 
in spite of the two best farriers in the 
country, she died, and be damned to 
her ! The farriers said that she had 
been quite strained in the fillets be- 
yond cure before you had bouglit her ; 
and that the poor devil, thougli she 
might keep a little flesh, had been 
jaded and quite worn out with fatigue 



and oppression. While she wu 

me, she was under my own eye, ami 
assure you, my much- valued frieii 
everything was done for her that could 
be done; and the accident has vexed 
me to the heart. In fact I could not 
pluck up spirits to write to you, on 
account of the unfortunate business. 

There is little new in this country. 
Our theatrical company, of which you 
must have heard, leave us this week. 
Their merit and character are indeed 
very great, both on the stage and in 
private life; not a worthless creature 
among them; and their encouragement 
has been accordingly. Their usual run 
is from eighteen to twenty-five pounds 
a night; seldom less than the one, and 
the house will hold no more than the 
other. There have been repeated in- 
stances of sending away six, and eight, 
and ten pounds a night for want of 
room. A new theatre is to be built by 
subscription; the first stone is to be 
laid on Friday first to come. Three 
hundred guineas have been raised by 
thirty subscribers, and thirty more 
might have been got if wanted. Tlio 
manager, Mr. Sutherland, was intro- 
duced to me by a friend from Ayr; and 
a worthier or cleverer fellow I have 
rarely met with. Some of our clergy 
liave slipt in by stealth now and then; 
but they have got up a farce of their 
own. You must have heard how the 
Kev. Mr. Lawson, of Kirkmahoe, 
seconded by the Rev. Mr, Kirkpatrick, 
of Dunscore, and the rest of that fac- 
tion, have accused, in formal process, 
the unfortunate and Rev. Mr. Heron, 
of Kirkgunzeon, that, in ordaining 
Mr. Nielson to the cure of souls in 
Kirkbean, he, the said Heron, feloni- 
ously and treasonably bound the said 
Nielson to the confession of faith, so 
far as it was agreeable to rsason and 
the word of Oocl ! 

Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most 
gratefully to you. Little Bobby and 
Frank are charmingly well and healthy. 
I am jaded to death with fatigue. For 
these two or three months, on an aver- 
age, 1 have not ridden less than two 
hundred miles per week. I have done 
little in the poetic way. I have giveo 



r 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



453 



<^- Mr. Sutherland two Prologues; one of 
■^hicli was delivered last week. I have 
likewise strung four or five barbarous 
stanzas, to the tune of " Chevy Chase," 
by way of Elegy on your poor unfor- 
tunate mare, beginning (the name she 
got here was Peg Nicholson.) 

j " Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 
As ever trode on airn ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 
And past the mouth o' Cairn." 

(See p. 127.) 

My best compliments to Mrs. Nicol, 
and little Neddy, and all the family; I 
hope Ned is a good scholar, and will 
come out to gather nuts and apples 
with me next harvest. 

R. B. 



No. CLXXXVIII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, Feb. 13, 1790. 

I BEG your pardon, my dear and 
much-valued friend, for writing to you 
on this very unfashionaole, unsightly 
sheet — 

" My poverty, but not my will, consents." 

But to make amends, since of modish 
post I have none, except one poor 
widowed half-sheet of gilt, which lies 
in my drawer among my plebeian fools- 
cap pages, like the widow of a man of 
fashion, whom that unpolite scoundrel, 
Necessity, has driven from Burgundy 
and pineapple, to a dish of Boliea, with 
the scandal-bearing helpmate of a vil- 
lage priest; or a glass of whiskey -tod- 
dy, with a ruby-nosed yoke-fellow of a 
foot-padding exciseman — I make a vow 
to enclose this sheetful of epistolary 
fragments in that my only scrap of 
gilt paper. 

I am indeed your unworthy debtor 
for three friendly letters. I ought to 
have written to you long ere now, but 
it is a literal fact I have scarcely a 
spare moment. It is not that I icill not 
write to you; Miss Burnet is not more 
dear to her guardian angel, nor his 
grace the Duke of Queensberry to the 
powers of darkness, than my friend 
Cimningham to me. It is not that I 



cannot write to you; should you doubt 
it, take the following fragment, which 
was intended for you some time ago, 
and be convinced that I can antithenze 
sentiment, and circumvolute periods, 
as well as any coiner of phrase in the 
regions of philology: — 

December, 1789. 

My dear Cunningham, — Where 
are you ? And what are you doing ? 
Can you be that son of levity, who 
takes up a friendship as he takes up a 
fashion; or are you, like some other of 
the worthiest fellows in the world, 
the victim of indolence, laden with 
letters of ever-increasing weight ? 

What strange beings we are ! Since 
we have a portion of conscious ex- 
istence, equally capable of enjoying 
pleasure, happiness, and rapture, or 
of suffering pain, wretchedness, and 
misery, it is surely worthy of an in- 
quiry, whether there be not such a 
thing as a science of life; whether 
method, economy, and fertility of ex- 
pedients, be not applicable to enjoy- 
ment: and whether there be not a 
want of dexterity in pleasure, which 
renders our little scantling of happi- 
ness still less; and a profuseness, an 
intoxication in bliss, which leads to 
satiety, disgust, and self-abhorrence. 
There is not a doubt but that health, 
talents, character, decent competency, 
respectable friends, are real substantial 
blessings, and yet do we not daily see 
those who enjoy many or all of these 
good things contrive notwithstanding 
to be as unhappy as others to whose 
lot few of them have fallen ? I believe 
one great source of this mistake or 
misconduct is owing to a certain stim- 
ulus, with us called ambition, which 
goads us up the hill of life, not as we 
ascend other eminences, for the laud- 
able curiosity of viewing an extended 
landscape, but rather for the dishonest 
pride of looking down on others of our 
fellow-creatures, seemingly diminutive 
in humbler stations, &c. 

Sunday, Feb. 14, 1790. 

God help me ! I am now obliged t«t 
join 
" Night to-day, and Sunday to the week.". 



BTO^'S' \\^ork:s. 



If there be any truth in the orthodox 
faith of these churches, I am damned 
past redemption, and what is worse, 
damned to all eternity. I am deeply 
read in Boston's Fourfold State, Mar- 
shall on Sanctification,' Guthrie's Trial 
of a Saving Interest, &c. ; but "there 
is no balm in Gilead, there is no 
physician there," for me; so I shall 
e'en turn Arminian, and trust to " sin- 
cere though imperfect obedience. " 

Tuesday, i6th. 

Luckily for me, I was prevented' from 
the discussion of the knotty point at 
which I had just made a full stop. All 
my fears and cares are of this world: 
if there is another, an honest man has 
nothing to fear from it. I hate a man 
that wishes to be a Deist ; but I fear 
every fair unprejudiced inquirer must 
in some degree be a sceptic. It is not 
that there are any very staggering ar- 
guments against the immortality of 
man; but, like electricity, phlogiston, 
&c., the subject is so involved in dark- 
ness that we want data to go upon. 
One thing frightens me much ; that we 
are to live forever, seems too good news 
to he true. That we are to enter into 
a new scene of existence, where, ex- 
empt from want and pain, we shall en- 
joy ourselves and our friends without 
satiety or separation — how much 
should I be indebted to any one who 
could fully assure me that this was 
certain ! 

My time ife once more expired. I 
will write to Mr. Cleghorn soon. 
God bless him and all his concerns ! 
And may all the powers that preside 
over conviviality and friendship be 
present with all their kindest influ- 
ence, when the bearer of this, Mr. 
Syme, and you meet ! I wish I could 
also make one. 

Finally, brethren, farewell ! What- 
soever things are lovely, whatsoever 
things are gentle, whatsoever things 
are charitable, whatsoever things, are 
kind, think on these things and think 
on 

R. B. 



No. CLXXXIX. 
TO MR. HILL. 

Ellisland, March 2, 1790. 

At a late meeting of the Monkland 
Friendly Society, it Avas resolved to 
augment their library by the folloAving 
books, which you are to send us as 
soon as possilDle: — The Mirror, the 
Lounger, " Man of Feeling," " Man of 
the World," (these, for my own sake, 
I wish to have by the first carrier,) 
Knox's History of the Reformation; 
Raes History of the Rebellion in 1715; 
any good History of the Rebellion in 
1745; A Display of the Secession Act 
and Testimony, by Mr. Gibb; Hervey's 
Meditations; Beveridge's Thoughts; 
and another copy of Watson's Body of 
Divinity. 

I wrote to Mr. A. Masterton three or 
four months ago, to pay some money 
he owed me into your hands, and 
lately I wrote to you to the same pur- 
pose, but I h§ve heard from neither 
one nor other of you. 

In addition to the books I commis- 
sioned in my last, I want very much 
an Index to the Excise Laws, or an 
Abridgment of all the Statutes now in 
force, relative to the Excise, by Jel- 
linger Symons; I want three copies of 
this book : if it is now to be had, cheap 
or dear, get it for me. An honest 
country neighbour of mine wants, too, 
a Family Bible, the larger the better, 
but second-handed, for he does not 
choose to give above ten shillings for 
the book. I want likewise for myself, 
as you can pick them up, second- 
handed or cheap, copies of Otway's 
Dramatic Works, Ben Jonson's, Dry- 
den's, Congreve's, Wycherley's, Van- 
brugh's. Gibber's, or any Dramatic 
Works of the more modern Macklin, 
Garrick, Foote, Col man, or Sheridan. 
A good copy, too, of Moliere, in 
French, I much want. Any other 
good dramatic authors in that lan- 
guage I want also; but comic authors 
chiefly, though I should wish to have 
Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire too. 
I am in no hurry for all, or any of 
these, but if you accidentally meet 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



455 



with them very cheap, get them for 

me. 

And now, to quit the dry walk of 
business, how do you do, my dear 
friend ? and how is Mrs, Hill ? I 
trust, if now and then not so elegantly 
handsome, at least as amiable, and 
sings as divinely as ever. My good 
■wife, too, has a charming * ' wood-note 
wild;" now could we four 

I am out of all patience with this 
vile world, for one thing. Mankind 
are by nature benevolent creatures, ex- 
cept in a few scoundrelly instances. 
I do not think that avarice of tlie good 
things we chance to have is born with 
us; but we are placed here amidst so 
much nakedness, and hunger, and 
poverty, and want, that we are under 
a cursed necessity of studying selfish- 
ness, in order that we may exist ! 
Still there are, in every age, a few 
souls that all the wants and woes of 
life cannot debase to selfishness, or 
even to the necessary alloy of caution 
and prudence. If ever I am in danger 
of vanity, it is when I contemplate 
myself on this side of my disposition 
and character. God knows I am no 
saint; I have a whole host of follies 
and sins to answer for, but if I could, 
and I believe I do it as far as I can, I 
would wipe away all tears from all 
eyes. Adieu ! 

R. B. 



No. CXC. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, April lo, 1790. 

I HAVE just now, my ever-honoured 
friend, enjoyed a very high luxury, 
in reading a paper of the Lounger. 
You know my national prejudices. I 
had often read and admired the Spec- 
tator, Adventurer, Rambler, and 
World; but still with a certain regret 
that they were so thoroughly and en- 
tirely English. Alas ! have I often 
gaid to myself, what are all the boasted 
advantages which my country reaps 
from the union, that can counterbalance 
the ftBuihilation of her independence, 



and even her very name ! I often re 
peat that couplet of my favourite poet, 
Goldsmith — 

" States, of native liberty possest, 
Though very poor may yet be very blest." 

Nothing can reconcile me to the 
common terms, "English Ambassador, 
English Court," &c. And I am oirt ol 
all patience to see that equivocal char- 
acter, Hastings, impeached by ** the 
Commons of England." Tell me, my 
friend, is this weak prejudice? I be- 
lieve in my conscience such ideas as 
" my country ; her independence; her 
honour; the illustrious names that 
mark the history of my native land;" 
&c. I believe these, among your 
men of the world, men who in fact 
guide for the most part and govern 
our Avorld, are looked on as so many 
modifications of wrong-headedness. 
They know the use of bawling out 
such terms, to rouse or lead the rab- 
ble; but for their own private use, 
with almost all the able statesmen that 
ever existed, or now exist, when they 
talk of right and wrong, they only 
mean proper and improper; and their 
measure of conduct is, not what they 
OUGHT, but what they dare. For 
the truth of this I shall not ransack 
the history of nation^, but appeal to 
one of the ablest judges of men that 
ever lived — the celebrated Earl of 
Chesterfield. In fact, a man who 
could thoroughly control his vices 
whenever they interfered with his 
interests, and who could completely 
put on the appearance of every vir- 
tue as often as it suited his pur 
poses, is, on the Stanhopian plan, the 
perfect man; a man to lead nations. 
Bu* are great abilities, complete with- 
out a flaw, and polished without a 
blemish, the standard of human ex- 
cellence ? This is certainly the stanch 
opinion of men of the world; but I call 
on honour, virtue, and worth, to give 
the Stygian doctrine a loud negative ! 
However, this must be allowed, that, 
if you abstract from man the idea of 
an existence beyond the grave, then 
the true measure of human conduct is 
proper and improper: virtue and vice, 
as dispositious of the hearty are, ift 



456 



BTIRNS' WORKS. 



that case, of scarcely the same import 
and value to the world at large as har- 
mony and discord in the modifications 
of sound; and a delicate sense of honour, 
like a nice ear for music, though it 
may sometimes give the possessor an 
ecstacy unknown to the coarser organs 
of the herd, yet, considering the liarsh 
gratings, and inharmonic jars, in this 
ill- tuned state of being, it is odds but 
the individual would be as happy, and 
certainly would be as much respected 
by the true judges of society as it would 
then stand, without either a good ear, 
or a good heart. 

You must know I have just met 
■with the Mirror and Lounger for the 
first time, and I am quite in raptures 
with them; I should be glad to have 
your opinion of some of the papers. 
The one I have just read, Lounger, 
No. 61, has cost me more honest tears 
than anything I have read of a long 
time.* Mackenzie has been called the 
Addison of the Scots, and, in my 
opinion, Addison would not be hurt at 
the comparison. If he has not Addi- 
son's exquisite humour, he as certainly 
outdoes him in the tender and the pa- 
thetic. His " Man of Feeling " (but I 
am not counsel learned in the laws of 
criticism) I estimate as the first per- 
formance in its kind I ever saw. From 
what book, moral or even pious, will 
the susceptible young mind receive im- 
pressions more congenial to humanity 
and kindness, generosity and benevo- 
lence; in short, more of all that en- 
nobles the soul to herself, or endears 
her to others— than from the simple 
affecting tale of poor Harley ? 

Still, with all my admiration of 
Mackenzie's writings, I do not know if 
they are the fittest reading for a young 
man who is about to set out, as the 
phrase is, to make his way into life. 
Do not you think, madam, that among 
the few favoured of Heaven in the 
structure of their minds, (for such 
there certainly are) tnere may be a 
purity, a tenderness, a dignity, and 
elegence of soul which are of no use, 



* This paper relates to attachments between 
servants and masters, and concludes with the 
Itory o| Albert Blane» 



nay, in some degree, absolutely dis- 
qualifying for the truly important 
business of making a man's way into 
life ? If I am not much mistaken, my 

gallant young friend, A ,* is very 

much under these disqualifications; 
and for the young females of a famiiy 
I could mention, well may they excite 
parental solicitude, for I, a common ac- 
quaintance, or as my vanity will have 
it, an humble friend, have often 
trembled for a turn of mind which 
may render them eminently happy or 
peculiarly miserable. 

I have been manufacturing some 
verses lately; but as I have got the 
most hurried season of Excise business 
over, I hope to have more leisure to 
transcribe anything that may show 
how much I have the honour to be. 
madam, yours, &c., 

R. B. 



No. CXCI. 
TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL. 

Ellisland, 1790. 

Sm, — I shall not fail to wait on 
Captain Riddel to-night — I wish and 
pray that the goddess of justice her- 
self would appear to-morrow among 
our hon. gentlemen, merely to give 
them a word in their ear that mercy to 
the thief is injustice to the honest man. 
For my part I have galloped over my 
ten parishes these four days, until this 
moment that I am just alighted, or 
rather, that my poor jackass-skeleton 
of a horse has let me down; for the 
miserable devil has been on his knees 
half a score of times within the last 
twenty miles, telling me in his own 
way, *• Behold, am not I thy faithful 
jade of a hor.se, on which thou hast 
ridden these many years ? " 

In short, sir, I have broke my horse's 
wind, and almost broke my own neck, 
besides some injuries in a part that 
shall be nameless, owing to a hard- 
hearted stone for a saddle. I find that 
every offender has so many great men 

* Supposed to be APtbony, a spn of Mi* 
Punlop's. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



457 



to espouse his cause that I shall not be 
surprised if am committed to the 
strong hold of the law to-morrow for 
insolence to the dear friends of the 
gentlemen of the country. I have the 
honour to be, sir, your obliged and 
obedient humble, B. B. 



No. CXCII. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Excise-Office, Dumfries, July 14, 1790. 

Sir, — Coining into town this morn- 
ing to attend my duty in this office, it 
being collection-day, I met with a 
gentleman who tells me he is on his 
way to London; so I take the oppor- 
tunity of writing to you, as franking 
is at present under a temporary death. 
I shall have some snatches of leisure 
through the day, amid our horrid busi- 
ness and bustle, and I shall improve 
them as well as I can; but let my let- 
ter be as stupid as , as miscella- 
neous as a newspaper, as short as a 
hungry grace before meat, or as long 
as a law-paper in the Douglass cause; 
as ill spelt as country John's billet- 
doux, or as unsightly a scrawl as Betty 
Byre-Mucker's answer to it; I hope, 
considering circumstances, you will 
forgive it; and as it will put you to no 
expense of postage , I shall have the 
less reflection about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not return- 
ing you my thanks for your most 
valuable present, "Zeluco." In fact, 
you are in some degree blamable for 
my neglect. You were pleased to ex- 
press a wish for my opmion of the 
work, which so flattered me that noth- 
ing less would serve my overweening 
fancy than a formal criticism on the 
book. In fact, I have gravely planned 
a comparative view of you. Fielding, 
Richardson, and Smollett, in your dif- 
ferent qualities and merits as novel- 
writers. This, I own, betrays my 
ridiculous vanity, and I may probably 
never bring the business to bear; but 
I am fond of the spirit young Elihu 
shows in the book of Job — " And I 
said, I will also declare my opinion." 
I have quite disfigured my copy of the 



book with my annotations. I never 
take it up without at the same time 
taking my pencil, and marking with 
asterisms, parentheses, &c, where- 
ever I meet with an original thought, 
a nervous remark on life and manners, 
a remarkably well-turned period, or a 
character sketched with uncommon 
precision. 

Though I should hardly think of 
fairly writing out my ' ' Comparative 
View," I shall certainly trouble you 
with my remarks, such as they are. 

I have just received from my gentle- 
man that horrid summons in the book 
of Revelation — " That time shall be no 
more !" 

The little collection of sonnets* have 
some charming poetry in them. If 
indeed I am indebted to the fair author 
for the book, and not, as I rather sus- 
pect, to a celebrated author of the 
other sex, I should certainly have 
written to the lady, with my grateful 
acknowledgments, and my own ideas 
of the comparative excellence of her 
pieces. I would do this last, not from 
any vanity of thinking that my re- 
marks could be of much consequence 
to Mrs. Smith, but merely from my 
own feelings as an author, doing as I 
would be done by. R. B. 



No. CXCIII. 

TO MR. MURDOCH, TEACHER OP 
FRENCH, LONDON. 

Ellisland, July 16, 1790. 
My dear Sir, — I received a let- 
ter from you a long time ago, but 



* The sonnets to which Burns alludes were 
those of Charlotte Smith , in the volume which 
belonged to the poet one note alone intimates 
that the book passed through his hands ; the 
fair authoress, in giving the source of line 14, 
in the 8th sonnet— 

" Have power to cure all sadness but despair," 
quotes Milton— 

" Vernal delight and joy, able to drive 
All sadness but despair." 
To this Burns added with the pen 

'' He sang sae sweet as might dispel 
A' rage but fell despair." 
These lines are to be found in one version at 
least of the fine ballad of Gil Moricc— Cw«* 

NINGHAM. 



m 



-Qtm^B* WORKS. 



unfortunately as it was in the time of 
my peregrinations and journeyings 
through Scotland, I mislaid or lost it, 
and by consequence your direction 
along with it. Luckily my good star 
brought me acquainted with Mr. 
Kennedy, who, I understand, is an ac- 
quaintance of yours: and by his means 
and mediation I hope to replace that 
link which my unfortunate negligence 
h.id so unluckily broken in the chain 
of our correspondence. I was the more 
vexed at the vile accident as my 
brother William, a journeyman sad- 
dler, has been for some time in Lon- 
don ; and wished above all things for 
your direction, that he might have paid 
his respects to his father's friend. 

His last address he sent me was, 
"Wm. Burns, at Mr. Barber's, saddler, 
No. 181, Strand." I wrote him by 
Mr. Kennedy, but neglected to ask him 
for your address; so, if you find a 
spare half minute, please let my brother 
know by a card where and when he 
will find you, and the poor fellow will 
joyfully wait on you, as one of the few 
surviving friends of the man whose 
; name, and Christian name too, he has 
the honour to bear. 

The next letter I write you shall be 
a long one. I have much to tell you of 
" hairbreadth 'scapes in th' imminent 
deadly breach," with all the eventful 
history of a life, the early years of 
which owed so much to your kind 
tutorage; but this at an hour of 
leisure. My kindest compliments to 
Mrs Murdoch and family. I am ever, 
my dear sir, your obliged friend, 

R. B. 



You knew Henderson — I have not 
flattered his memory. I have the hon- 
our to be, sir, your obliged humble 
servant, 

R. B.* 



No. CXCIV. 
TO MR. M'MURDO. 

Ellisland, Aug. 2, 1790. 

Sir, — Now that you are over with 
the sirens of Flattery, the harpies of 
Corruption, and the furies of Ambition, 
these infernal deities, that on all sides, 
and in all parties, preside over the 
villanous business of politics, permit 
a rustic muse of your acquaintance to 
do her best to soothe you with a song. 



No. CXCV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Aug. 8, 1790. 

Dear Madam, — After a long day's 
toil, plague and care, I sit down to 
write to you. Ask me not why I have 
delayed it so long ! It was owing to 
hurry, indolence, and fifty other things; 
in short to anything — but forgetful- 
ness of la plus aimcMe de son sexe. By 
the by, you are indebted your best 
courtesy to me for this last compliment; 
as I pay it from my sincere conviction 
of its truth — a quality rather rare in 
compliments of these grinning, bow- 
ing, scraping times. 

Well, I hope writing to you will 
ease a little my troubled soul. Sorely 
has it been bruised to-day ! A ci-devant 
friend of mine, and an intimate ac- 
quaintance of yours, has given my 
feelings a wound that I perceive will 
gangrene dangerously ere it cure. He 
has wounded my pride ! 

R. B. 



No. CXCVI. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, Aug. 8, 1790. 

Forgive me, my once dear, and ever 
dear, friend, my seeming negligence. 
You cannot sit down and fancy the 
busy life I lead. 

I laid down my goose feather to beat 
my brains for an apt simile, and had 
some thoughts of a country grannum 
at a family christening; a bride on the 
market-day before her marriage; . . 

or a tavern-keeper at an election din- 

* This brief letter enclosed the poem on the 
death of Captain Matthew Henderson, whom 
the poet had frequently met while in Edin- 
burgh. 



GENERAL C0KS7.5P0NDENCE. 



/5J^ 



ner; but tlie resemblance that hits my 
fancy best is that blackguard miscre- 
ant, Satan, who roams about like a 
roaring lion, seeking, searching whom 
he may devour. However, tossed about 
as I am, if I choose (and who would not 
choose) to bind down with the crampets 
of attention the brazen foundation of 
integrity, I may rear up the super- 
structure of independence, and, irom 
its daring turrets, bid defiance *to the 
storms of fate. And is not this a ' ' con- 
summation devoutly to be wished ?" 

" Thy spirit, Independence, let me share : 
Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle-eye ! 

Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, 
Nor heed the storm that howls along the 
sky ! " 

Are not these noble verses ? They 
are the introduction of Smollet's "Ode 
to Independence:" if you have not seen 
the poem, I will send it to you. How 
wretched is the man that hangs on by 
the favours uf the great ! To shrink 
from every dignity of man, at the ap- 
proach of a lordly piece of self-conse- 
quence, who amid all his tinsel glitter, 
and stately hauteur, is but a creature 
formed as thou art — and perhaps not 
BO well fonned as thou art — came into 
the world a puling infant as thou 
didst; and must go out of it as all men 
must, a naked corse. 

R. B. 



No. CXCVII. 

TO DR. ANDERSON. 

[1790.1 
Sir, — I am much indebted to my 
worthy friend Dr. Blacklock for intro- 
ducing me to a gentleman of Dr. An- 
derson's celebrity; but when you do 
me the honour to ask my assistance in 
your proposed publication, alas, sir ! 
you might as well think to cheapen a 
little honesty at the sign of an advo- 
cate's wig, or humility under the Ge- 
neva band. I am a miserable hurried 
devil, worn to- the marrow in the fric- 
tion of holding the noses of the poor 
publicans to the grindstone of the Ex- 
cise ! and like Milton's Satan, for pri- 
vate reasons, am forced 
*' To do what yet^ though dantn'dy I would 



— and except a couplet or two of honest 
execration, 
R. B. 



No. CXCVIII. 

TO CRAWFORD TAIT, ESQ., 
EDINBURGH. 

Ellisland, Oct. 15, 1790^ 

Dear Sir, — Allow me to introduce 
to your acquaintance the bearer, Mr. 
Wm. Duncan, a friend of mine, whom 
I have long known and long loved. 
His father, whose only son he is, hag 
a decent little property in Ayrshire, 
and has bred the young man to the law, 
in which department he comes up an 
adventurer to your good town. I 
shall give you my friend's character 
in two words: as to his head, he has 
talents enough, and more than enough, 
for common life; as to his heart, when 
nature had kneaded the kindly clay 
that composes it, she said, " I can no 
more." 

You, my good sir, were born under 
kinder stars; but your fraternal sym- 
pathy I well know, can enter into the 
feelings of the young man, who goes 
into life with the laudable ambition to 
do something, and to he something 
among his fellow -creatures: but whom 
the consciousness of friendless ob- 
scurity presses to the earth, and 
wounds to the soul ! 

Even the fairest of his virtues are 
against him. That Independent spirit, 
and that ingenuous modesty, qualities 
inseparable from a noble mind, are, 
with the million, circumstances not a . 
little disqualifying. What pleasure ' 
is in the power of the fortunate and 
the happy, by their notice and patron- 
age, to brighten the countenance and 
glad the heart of such depressed 
youth ! I am not so angry with man- 
kind for their deaf economy of the 
purse — the goods of this world cannot 
be divided without being lessened; — 
but why be a niggard of that which 
bestows bliss on a fellow-creature, 
yet takes nothing from our own means 
of enjoyment ? We wrap ourselves 
up in a cloak of our own better for- 



460 



BURNS' WORKS. 



tune, and turn away our eyes, lest the 
wants and woes of our brother mor- 
tals should disturb the selfish apathy 
of our souls ! 

I am the worst hand in the world at 
asking a favour. That indirect address, 
that insinuating implication, which, 
without any positive request, plainly ex- 
presses your wish, is a talent not to be 
acquired at a plough-tail. Tell me 
then, for you can, in what periphrasis 
of language, in what circumvolution 
of phrase, 1 shall envelop, yet not con- 
ceal this plain story. — "My dear 
Mr. Tait, my friend Mr. Duncan, 
whom I have the pleasure of intro- 
ducing to you, is a young lad of your 
profession, and a gentleman of much 
modesty, and great worth. Perhaps 
k may be in your power to assist him 
in the, to him, important considera- 
tion of getting a place; but at all 
events your notice and acquaintance 
will be a very great acquisition to him ; 
and I dare pledge myself that he will 
never disgrace your favour." 

You may possibly be surprised, sir, 
at such a letter from me; 'tis, I own, 
in the usual way of calculating these 
matters, more than our acquaintance 
entitles me to; but my answer is short: 
Of all the men at your time of life, 
whom I knew in Edinburgh, you are 
the most accessible on the side on 
which I have assailed you. You are 
very much altered indeed from what 
you were when I knew you, if gener- 
osity point the path you will not tread, 
or humanity call to you in vain. 

As to myself, a being to whose in- 
terest I believe you are still a well- 
wisher, I am here, breathing at all 
times, thinking sometimes, and rhym- 
ing now and tlien. Every situation 
has its share of the cares and pains of 
life, and my situation, I am persuaded, 
has a full ordinary allowance of its 
pleasures and enjoyments. 

My best compliments to your father 
and Miss Tait. If you have an oppor- 
tunity, please remember me in the 
8olemn-league-and- covenant of friend- 
ship to Mrs. Lewis Hay.* I am a 

« Formerly Miss Margaret Chalmers. 



wretch for not writing her; but I am 
so hackneyed with self accusation in 
that way that my conscience lies in 
my bosom with scarce the sensibility 
of an oyster in its shell. Where is 
Lady M'Kenzie ? wherever she is, God 
bless her ! I likewise beg leave to 
trouble you with compliments to Mr. 
Wm. Hamilton; Mrs. Hamilton and 
family; and Mrs. Chalmers, when 
you are in that country. Should you 
meet with Miss Nimmo, please remem- 
ber me kindly to her. 

R. B. 



No. CXCIX. 



TO 



Ellisland, 1790. 



Dear Sir, — Whether in the way 
of my trade, I can be of any service 
to the Rev. Doctor, is, I fear, very 
doubtful. Ajax's shield consisted, I 
think, of seven bull hides and a plate 
of brass, which altogether set Hector's 
utmost force at defiance. Alas ! I am 
not a Hector, and the worthy Doctor's 
foes are as securely armed as Ajax 
was. Ignorance, superstition, bigotry, 
stupidity, malevolence, self-conceit, 
envy — all strongly bound in a massy 
frame of brazen impudence ! Good God, 
sir ! to such a shield, humour is the 
peck of a sparrow, and satire the pop- 
gun of a schoolboy. Creation-disgrac- 
ing sceUrats such as they, God only 
can mend, and the devil only can 
punish. in the comprehending way 
of Caligula, I wish they all had but 
one neck. I feel impotent as a child 
to the ardour of my wishes I Oh for 
a withering curse to blast the gerrains 
of their wicked machinations ! Oh for 
a poisonous tornado, winged from the 
torrid zone of Tartarus, to sweep the 
spreading crop of their villanous con- 
trivances to the lowest hell!* 

R. B. 



* Mr. Cunningham surmises that this letter 
which contained a copy of ''The Kirk's 
Alarm." was addressed to Gavin Hamilton. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



451 



No. CC. 

TO MRS. DUXLOP. 

Ellisland, Nov. 1790. 

"As cold waters to a tliirsty soul, 
so is good news from a far country." 

Fate has long owed me a letter of 
good news from you, in return for the 
many tidings of sorrow which I have 
received. In this instance I most cor- 
dially obey the apostle — "Rejoice with 
them that do rejoice " — for me, to sing 
for joy, is no new thing; but to preach 
for joy, as I have done in the com- 
mencement of this epistle, is a pitch of 
extravagant rapture to which I never 
rose before. 

I read your letter — I literally jump- 
ed for joy. How could such a mercu- 
rial creature as a poet lumpishly keep 
his seat, on the receipt of the best news 
from his best friend ? J. seized my 
gilt- headed wangee rod, an instrument 
indispensably necessary in my left 
hand, in the moment of inspiration and 
rapture; and stridi', stride — quick and 
quicker — out skipt I among the l^roomy 
banks of Nith to muse over my joy by 
retail. To keep within the bounds of 
prose was impossible. Mrs. Little's is 
a more elegant, but not a more sincere, 
compliment to the sweet little fellow 
than I, extempore almost, poured out 
to him in the following verses: — 

*' Sweet fiow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 

And ward o' mony a pra3^er, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! " 

(See p. 134.) 

I am much flattered by your appro- 
bation of my " Tam o' Shanter," which 
you express in ydur former letter; 
though, by the by, you load me in that 
said letter with accusations heavy and 
many; to all which I plead, not guilty ! 
Your book is, I hear, on the road to 
reach me. As to printing of poetry, 
when you prepare it for the press, you 
have only to spell it right, and place 
the capital letters properly; as to the 
punctuation, the printers do that them- 
selves. 

I have a copy of ' ' Tam o' Shanter " 
ready to send you the first opportu- 
nity; it is too heavy to send by post. 



I heard of Mr. Corbet* lately. He. 
in consequence of your recommenda- 
tion, is most zealous to serve me. 
Please favour me soon with an ac 
count of your good folks; if Mrs. H, ia 
recovering, and the young gentlemen 
doing well. 

R. B. 



No. CCL 

TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE. 

Ellisland, Jan. 11, 1791. 

My Lady, — Nothing less than the 
unlucky accident of having lately 
broken my right arm could have pro- 
vented me, the moment I received your 
ladyship's elegant present by Mrs. 
Miller, from returning you my warm- 
est and most grateful acknowledg- 
ments; I assure your ladyship, I shall 
set it apart: the symbols of religion 
shall only be more sacred. In the mo- 
ment of poetic composition, the bos 
shall be my inspiring genius. When 
I would breathe the comprehensive 
wish of benevolence for the happiness 
of others, I shall recollect your lady- 
ship; when I would interest my fancy 
in the distresses incident to humanity, 
I shall remember the unfortunate 
Mary. I 

R. B. 



No. ccn. 

TO WILLIAM DLNBAR, W. S. 

Ellisland, Jan. 17, 1791 

I AM not going to Elysium, mo> 
noble colonel, t but am still here ii 
this sublunary world, serving my Gt); 
by propagating his image, and honour- 
ing my king by begetting him loyal 
subjects. 

* One of the general supervisors of Excise-. 

t This letter was written acknowledging 
the present of a valuable snuff-box, with 
a fine picture of Mary Queen of Scots on the 
lid. This was the gift of Lady Winifrti 
Maxwell Constable, in grateful return for the 
Poet's " Lament " of that ill-starred Princess. 

X So styled as President of the Convivial 
Society, known by the name of The Crochai'^ 
Ian Fengibles, 



462 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Many happy returns of the season 
await my friend. May the thorns of 
care never beset his path ! May peace 
be an inmate to his bosom, and rapture 
a frequent visitor of his soul ! May 
the blood-hounds of misfortune never 
track his steps, nor the screech-owl of 
sorrow alarm his dwelling ! May en- 
joyment tell thy hours, and pleasure 
number thy days, thou friend of the 
bard! "Blessed be he that blesseth 
thee, and cursed be he that curseth 
thee ! ! ! " 

As a further proof that I am still in 
the land of existence, I send you a 
poem, the latest I have composed. I 
have a particular reason for wishing 
you only to show it to select friends, 
should you think it worthy a friend's 
perusal ; but if, at your first leisure 
hour, you will favour me with your 
opinion of, and strictures on, the per- 
formance, it will be an additional ob- 
ligation on, dear sir, your deeply in- 
debted humble servant, 

R. B. 



No. CCIII. 

TO MRS. GRAHAM OF FINTRAY. 

Ellisland, Jan. 1791. 

Madam, — Whether it is that the 
story of our Mary Queen of Scots has 
a peculiar effect on the feelings of a 
poet, or whether I have, in the enclosed 
ballad, succeeded beyond my usual 
poetic success, I know not; but it has 
pleased me beyond any effort of my 
muse for a good while past; on that 
account I enclose it particularly to you. 
It is true, the purity of my motives 
may be suspected. I am already deep- 
ly indebted to Mr. Graham's goodness; 
and what, in the usual ways of men, is 
of infinitely greater importance, Mr. 
G. can do me service of the utmost im- 
portance in time to come. I was born 
a poor dog; and however 1 may occa- 
sionally pick a better bone than I used 
to do, I know I must live and die poor: 
but I will indulge the flattering faith 
that my poetry will considerably out- 
live my poverty; and, without any fus- 



tian affectation of spirit, I can promise 
and affirm that it mu.st be no ordinary 
craving of the hitter shall ever make 
me do anything injurious to the honest 
fame of the former. Whatever may 
be my failings, for failings are a part 
of human nature, may they ever be 
those of a generous heart, and an in- 
dependent mind ! It is no fault of mine 
that I was born to dependence; nor is 
it Mr. Graham's chiefest praise that he ^ 
can command intluence; but it is his 
merit to besjow, not only with the 
kindness of a brother, but with the po- 
liteness of a gentleman ; and I trust it 
shall be mine to receive with thank- 
fulness, and %-emember with undimin- 
ished gratitude. 

R. B. 



No. CCIV. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Ellisland, Jan. 17, 1791. 

Take these two guineas, and place 
them over against that damned account 
of yours ! which has gagged my mouth 
these five or six months ! I can as little 
write good things as apologies to the 
man I owe money to. Oh, the supreme 
curse of making three guineas do the 
business of five ! Not all the labours 
of Hercules ; not all the Hebrews' 
three centuries of Egyptian bondage, 
were such an insuperable business, 
such an infernal task ! ! Poverty; thou 
half-sister of death, thou cousin-ger- 
man of hell ! where shall I find force 
of execration equal to the amplitude 
of thy demerits ? Oppressed by thee, 
the venerable ancient, grown hoary in 
the practice of every virtue, laden with 
years and wretchedness, implores a lit- 
tle — little aid to support his existence, 
from a stony-hearted son of Mammon, 
whose sun of prosperity never knew a 
cloud; and is by him denied and insult- 
ed. Oppressed by thee, the man of 
sentiment, whose heart glows with in- 
dependence, and melts with sensibility, 



OMEHAL COUHESPONBENCfi. 



iniy pines under the neglect, or writhes 
in bitterness of soul under the con- 
tumely, of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. 
Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, 
whose ill-starred ambition plants him 
at the tables of the fashionable and 
polite, must see, in suffering silence, 
his remarks neglected, and his person 
despised, while shallow greatness, in 
his idiot attempts- at wit, shall meet 
with countenance and applause. Nor 
Is it only the family of worth that have 
reason to complain of thee: the chil- 
dren of folly and vice, though in com- 
mon with thee the offspring of evil, 
smart equally under thy rod. Owing 
to thee, the man of unfortunate dis- 
position and neglected education is 
condemned as a fool for his dissipation, 
despised and shunned as a needy 
wretch, when his follies, as usual, 
bring him to Avant; and when his un- 
principled necessities drive him to dis- 
honest practices, he is abhorred as a 
miscreant, and perishes by the justice 
of his country. But far otherwise is 
the lot of the man of family and for- 
tune. His early follies and extrava- 
gance are spirit and fire; Ms consequent 
wants are the embarrassments of an 
houest fellow; and when, to remedy 
the matter, he has gained a legal com- 
mission to plunder distant provinces, 
or massacre peaceful nations, he re- 
turns, perhaps, laden with the spoils 
of rapine and murder; lives wicked 
and respected, and dies a scoundrel 
and a lord. Nay, worst of all, alas 
for helpless woman ! the needy prosti- 

Itute, who has shivered at the corner of 
the street, waiting to earn the wages 
of casual prostitution, is left neglected 
and insulted, ridden down by the char- 
iot wheels of the coroneted Rip, hurry- 
ing on to the guilty assignation; she, 
who, without the same necessities to 
plead, riots nightly in the same guilty 
trade. 

Well ! divines may say of it what 
they please; but execration is to the 
mind what phlebotomy is to the body: 
the vital sluices of both are wonderful- 
ly relieved by their respective evacua- 
tions. 

R. B. 



No. CCV- 

TO MR. ALEX. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, Jan. 23, 1791. 

Many happy returns of the season 
to you, my dear friend ! As many ol 
the good things of this life as are con- 
sistent with the usual mixture of good 
and evil in the cup of Being ! 

I have just finished a poem (" Tarn 
o' Shanter ") which you will receive 
enclosed. It is my first essay in the 
way of tales. 

i have these several months been 
hammering at an elegy on the amiable 
and accomplished Miss Burnet. I have 
got, and can get, no further than the 
following fragment, on which please 
give me your strictures. In all kinds 
of poetic composition, I set great store 
by your opinion; but in sentimental 
verses, in the poetry of the heart, no 
Roman Catholic ever set more value on 
the infallibility of the Holy Father 
than I do on yours. 

I mean the introductory couplets as 
text verses. 

[Here follows a portion of the elegy 
on Miss Burnet, for the whole of which 
see p. 134.] 

Let me hear from you soon. Adieu 1 
R. B. 



No. CCVI. 
TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. • 

Ellisland, Feb. 1791. 

Sm,— Nothing less than the unfor- 
tunate accident I have met with could 
have prevented my grateful acknowl- 
edgments for your letter. His own 
favourite poem, and that an es^ay in 
the walk of the Muses entirely new to 
him, where consequently his hopes 
and fears were on the most anxious 
alarm for his success in the attempt; 
to have that poem so much applauded 
by one of the first judges, was the 
most delicious vibration that ever 
thrilled along the heart-strings of a 
poor poet. However, Providence, to 
keep up the proper proportion of eti^ 



464 



BtJENS' WOKKS. 



with tlie good, wliicli it seems is ne- 
cessary in this sublunary state, thought 
proper to check my exultation by a 
very serious misfortune. A day or 
two after 1 received your letter, my 
liorse came down with me and broke 
my right arm. As this is the first ser- 
vice my arm has done me since its dis- 
aster, I find myself unable to do more 
than just, in general terms thank you 
for this additional instance of your 
patronage and friendship. As to the 
faults you detected in the piece, they 
are truly there: one of them, the hit 
at the lawyer and priest, I shall cut 
out; as to the falling off in the catas- 
trophe, for the reason you justly ad- 
duce, it cannot easily be remedied. 
Your approbation, sir, has given me 
such additional spirits to persevere in 
this species of poetic composition that 
I am already revolving two or three 
stories in my fancy. If I can bring 
these floating ideas to bear any kind 
of embodied form, it will give me an 
additional opportunity of assuring you 
how much I have the honour to be, 
kc. 

R. B. 



No. CCVII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Feb. 7, 1791. 

When I tell you, madam, that by a 
fall, not from my horse, but with my 
hofse, I liave been a cripple some 
time, and that this is the first day my 
arm and my hand have been able to 
serve me in writing; you will allow 
that it is too good an apology for my 
seemingly ungrateful silence. I am 
now getting better, and am able to 
rhyme a little, which implies some tol- 
erable ease; as I cannot think that the 
most poetic genius is able to compose 
on the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I men- 
tioned to you my having an idea of 
composing an elegy on the late Miss 
Buruet of Monboddo. I had the hon- 
our' of being pretty well acquainted 
with her, and have seldom felt so much 
at the loss of an acquaintance as when 



I heard that so amiable and accom- 
plished a piece of God's work was no 
more. 1 have, as yet, gone no further 
than the following fragment, of wnich 
please let me have your opinion. You 
know that elegy is a subject so much 
exhausted that any new idea on the 
business is not to be expected: 'tis well 
if we can place an old idea in a new 
light. How far L have succeeded as 
to this last, you will judge from what 
follows :— (See the "Elegy," p. 134.) 
I have proceeded no further. 

Your kind letter, with your kind re- 
membrance of your godson came safe. 
This last, madam, is scarcely what my 
pride can bear. As to the little fellow, 
he is, partiality apart, the finest boy I 
have for a long time seen. He is now 
seventeen months old, has the small- 
pox and measles over, has cut several 
teeth, and never had a grain of doctor's 
drugs in his bowels. 

I am truly happy to hear that the 
' ' little tio wret " is blooming so fresh 
and fair, and that the " mother plant" 
is rather recovering her drooping head. 
Soon and well may her " cruel 
wounds " be healed ! I have written 
thus far with a good deal of difficulty. 
When I get a little abler you shall hear 
further from, madam, yours, 

R. B. 



No. ccvni. 

TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON.* 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, I 
Feb. 14, 1791. ) 

Sir, — You must by this time have 
set me down as one of the most un- 
grateful of men. You did me the hon- 
our to present me with a book, which 
does honour to science and the intel- 
lectual powers of men, and I have not 
even so much as acknowledged the re- 
ceipt of it. The fact is, you yourself 
are to blame for it. Flattered as I was 
by your telling me that you wished to 



* The Rev. Archibald Alison, author of 
" Essays on the Principles of Taste," was the 
father of the historian of Europe. 



GENERAL OORRESPONDENCE. 



m 



have my opinion of the work, the old 
spiritual enemy of mankind, who 
knows well that vanity is one of the 
sins that most easily beset me, put it 
into my head to ponder over the per- 
formance with the look-ou;^ of a critic, 
and to draw up, forsooth, a deep learn- 
ed digest of strictures on a composition, 
of which, in fact, until I read the book, 
I did not even know the first principles. 
I own, sir, that at first glance, several 
of your propositions startled me as 
paradoxical. That the martial clangor 
of a trumpet had something in it vast- 
ly more grand, heroic, and sublime, 
than the twingle t wangle of a Jew's 
harp; that the delicate flexure of a 
rose-twig, when the half-blown flower 
is heavy with the tears of the dawn, 
was infinitely more beautiful and ele- 
gant than the upright stock of a bur- 
dock; and that from something innate 
and independent of all associations of 
ideas; — these 1 had set down as irre- 
fragable, orthodox truths, until per- 
using your book shook my faith. In 
short, sir, except Euclid's Elements of 
Geometry, which I made a shift to un- 
ravel by my father's fireside, in the 
winter evening of the first season I 
held the plough , I never read a book 
which gave me such a quantum of in- 
formation, and added so much to my 
stock of ideas, as your " Essays on the 
Principles of Taste." One thing, sir, 
you must forgive my mentioning as an 
uncommon merit in the work, I mean 
the language. To clothe abstract phi- 
losophy in elegance of style sounds 
something like a contradiction in terms; 
but you have convinced me that they 
are quite compatible. 

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles 
of my late composition. The one in 
print is my first essay in the way of 
telling a tale. — I am, sir, &c., 

R. B. 



No. CCIX. 

TO THE REV. G. BAIRD. 

Ellisland, Feb. 1791. 
Revekend Sir, — Why did you, my 
dear sir, write to me iu such a hesita- 



ting style on the business of poor 
Bruce? Don't I know, and have I not 
felt, the many ills, the peculiar ills, 
that poetic flesh is heir to ? You shall 
have your choice of all the unpublish- 
ed poems 1 have; and, had your letter 
had my direction so as to have reached 
me sooner, (it only came to my hand 
this moment,) I should have directly 
put you out of suspense on the subject. 
I only ask that some prefatory adver- 
tisement in the book, as well as the 
subscription bills, may bear that the 
publication is solely for the benefit of 
Bruce's mother. I would not put it 
into the power of ignorance to surmise, 
or malice to insinuate, that I clubbed 
a share in the work from mercenary 
motives. Nor need you give me credit 
for any remarkable generosity in my 
part of the business. I have such a 
host of peccadilloes, failings, follies, 
and backslidings, (anybody but myself 
might perhaps give some of them a 
worse appellation,) that by way of 
some balance, however trifling, in the 
account, I am fain to do any good that 
occurs in my very limited power to a 
fellow-creature, just for the selfish 
purpose of clearing a little of the vista 
of retrospection. 

R. B. 



No. CCX. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Ellisland, Feb. 28, 1791. 

I DO not know, sir, whether you are 
a subscriber to Grose's * ' Antiquities of 
Scotland." If you are, the enclosed 
poem will not be altogether new to 
you. Captain Grose did me the fav- 
our to send me a dozen copies of the 
proof sheet of which this is one. 
Should you have read the piece before, 
still this will answer the principal end 
I have in view; it will give me another 
opportunity of thanking you for all 
your goodness to the rustic bard; and 
also of showing you that the abilities 
you have been pleased to comment 



466 



BTTRNS' WOKKS. 



/: 



and patronise are still employed in the 
way you wish. 

The "Elegy on Captain Henderson" 
is a tribute to the memory of a man I 
loved much. Poets have in this the 
same advantage as Roman Catholics; 
they can be of service to their friends 
after they have passed that bourn 
where all other kindness ceases to be 
of avail. Whether, after all, either 
the one or the other be of any real ser- 
vice to the dead is, I fear, very prob- 
lematical; but I am sure they are 
liighly gratifying to the living: and as 
a very orthodox text, I forget where in 
Scripture, says, " whatsoever is not of 
faith is sin;" so say I, whatsoever is 
not detrimental to society, and is of 
positive enjoyment, is of God, the 
giver of all good things, and ought to 
be received and enjoyed by His crea- 
tures with thankful delight. As 
almost all my religious tenets origi- 
nate from my heart, I am wonderfully 
pleased with the idea that I can still 
keep up a tender intercourse with the 
dearly-beloved friend, or still more 
dearly-beloved mistress, who is gone 
to the world of spirits. 

The ballad on Queen Mary was be- 
gun while I was busy with Percy's 
•' Reliques of English Poetry." By 
the way, how much is every honest 
heart, which has a tincture of Cale- 
donian prejudice, obliged to you for 
your glorious story of Buchanan and 
Targe ! 'Twas an unequivocal proof 
of your loyal gallantry of soul giving 
Targe the victory. I should have 
been mortified to the ground if you 
had not. 

I have just read over, once more of 
many times, your " Zeluco." I marked 
with my pencil, as I went along, 
every passage that pleased me partic- 
ularly above the rest; and one or two, 
I think, which, with humble defer- 
ence, I am disposed to think unequal 
to tilt merits of the book. I have 
sometimes thought to transcribe these 
marked passages, or at least so much 
of them as to point where they are, 
and send them to you. Original 
strokes that strongly depict the human 
heart is your and Fielding's province. 



beyond any other novelist I have evoi 
perused. Richardson indeed might, 
perhaps, be excepted; but unhappily, 
his dramatis personcR are beings of 
another world; and, however they 
may captivate the inexperienced, ro- 
mantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they 
will ever, in proportion as we have 
made human nature our study, dis- 
satisfy our riper years. 

As to my private concerns, I am 
going on, a mighty tax-gatherer be- 
fore the Lord, and have lately had the 
interest to get myself ranked on the 
list of Excise as a. supervisor. I am 
not yet employed as such, but in a few 
years I shall fall into the file of super- 
visorship by seniority. I have had an 
immense loss in the death of the Earl 
of Glencairn; the patron from whom 
all my fame and fortune took its rise. 
Independent of my grateful attach- 
ment to him, which was indeed so 
strong that it pervaded my very soul, 
and was entwined with the thread of 
my existence; as soon as the prince's 
friends had got in, (and every dog you 
know has his day,) my getting for- 
ward in the Excise would have been 
an easier business than otherwise it 
will be. Though this was a consum- 
mation devoutly to be wished, yet, 
thank Heaven, I can live and rhyme as 
I am ! and as to my boys, poor little 
fellows ! if I cannot place them on as 
high an elevation in life as I could 
wish, I shall, if I am favoured so 
much by the Disposer of events as to 
see that period, fix them on as broad 
and independent a basis as possible. 
Among the many wise adages which 
have been treasured up by our Scottish 
ancestors, this is one of the best. 
Better he the head o' the commonalty 
than the tail o' the gentry. 

But I am got on a subject which, 
however interesting to me, is of no man- 
ner of consequence to you; so I shall 
give you a short poem on the other 
page, and close this with assuring you 
how sincerely I have the honour to be, 
yours, &c., 

B. B. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



467 



CCXI. 
TO MR. ALEX. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, March 12, 1791. 

If the foregoing piece be worth your 
strictures, let me have them. For my 
pwn part, a thing tliat I have just com- 
posed always appears through a double 
portion of that partial medium in 
which an author will ever view his 
own works. I believe, in general, 
novelty has something in it that in- 
ebriates the fancy, and not unfrequent- 
ly dissipates and fumes away like 
other intoxication, and leaves the poor 
patient, as usual, with an aching heart. 
A striking instance of this might be 
adduced, in the revolution of many a 
hymeneal honeymoon. But lest I sink 
into stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously 
intrude' on the office of my parish 
priest, I shall fill up the page in my 
own way, and give you another song 
of my late composition, which will ap- 
pear perhaps in Johnson's work, as well 
as the former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite 
air, " There'll never be peace till Jamie 
comes hame." When political com- 
bustion ceases to be the object of 
princes and patriots, it then, you know, 
becomes the lawful prey of historians 
and poets. 

" By yon castle wa' at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing, though his head it was 

gray, [came— 

And as he was singing, the tears fast down 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 

hame."* 

(See p. 230.] 

If you like the air, and if the stanza 
liit your fancy, you cannot imagine, 
my dear friend, how much you would 
oblige me if, by the charms of your 

* This beautiful little Jacobite ditty having 
appeared in Johnson's Museum with the old 
6ong marK at it, it has teen received as an old 
song all over Scotland. There was an old 
song, but I do not know where to find it. I 
remember only two lines : 

" My heart it is sair, and will soon break in 

tvva ; [awa." 

For there's few good fellows sin' Jamie's 

This last line is the name of the air in the 
Yery old collections of Scottish tunes.— Hogg. 



delightful voice, you would give my 
honest effusion to "the memory of 
joys that are past," to the few friends 
whom you indulge in that pleasure. 
But I have scribbled on till I hear the 
clock has intimated the near approach 
of— 

"That hour o' night's black arch the key- 
stane." 

So good night to you 1 Sound be your 
sleep, and delectable your dreams ! 
Apropos, how do you like this thought 
in a ballad I have just now on the 
tapis ? 

" I look to the west when I gae to rest, 
That happy my dreams and my slumbers 
may be ; 

Far, far in the west is he I lo'e best, 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me ! " 

Good night, once more, and God 
bless you I 

R. B. 



CCXII. 

TO MR. ALEXANDER DALZEL, 
FACTOR, FINDLAYSTON. 

Ellisland, March 19, 1791. 

My dear Sir,— I have taken the 
liberty to frank this letter to you, as it 
encloses an idle poem of mine, which 
I send you; and God knows you may 
perhaps pay dear enough for it if you 
read it through. Not that this is my 
own opinion; but the author, by the 
time he has composed and corrected 
his work, has quite pored away all his 
powers of critical discrimination. 

I can easily guess from my own 
heart what you have felt or a late 
most melancholy event. Go^ know« 
what I have suffered, at the loss of my 
best friend, my first and dearest patron 
and benefactor; the man to whom I owe 
all that I am and have ! I am gone into 
mourning for him, and with more sin- 
cerity of grief than I fear some will, 
who by nature's ties ought to feel on 
the occasion. 

I will be exceedingly obliged to you 
indeed, to let me know the news of the 
noble family, how the poor mother 
and the two sisters support their loss. 



468 



BURNS' WORKS. 



I had a packet of poetic bagatelles 
ready to send to Lady Betty, when I 
saw the fatal tidings in the newspaper. 
I see by the same channel that the hon- 
oured REMAINS of my noble patron are 
designed to be brought to the family 
burial-place. Dare I trouble you to let 
me know privately, before the day of 
interment thatl may cross the country, 
and steal among the crowd, to pay a 
tear to the last sight of my ever re- 
vered benefactor? It will oblige me 
beyond expression. 

R. B. 



No. CCXIII. 



TO 



Ellisi-and, March 1791. 

Deab Sir, — I am exceedingly to 
blame in not writing you long ago; 
but the truth is that I. am the most in- 
dolent of all human beings; and when 
I matriculate in the herald's office, I in- 
tend that my supporters shall be two 
sloths, my crest a slowworm, and the 
motto, ' ' Deil tak the foremost. " So 
much by way of apology for not thank- 
ing you sooner for your kind execution 
of my commission. 

I would have sent you the poem ; 
but some how or other it found its 
way into the public papers, where you 
must have seen it.* — I am ever, dear 
sir, yours sincerely, 

R. B. 



No. CCXIV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, April 11, 1791. 

I AM once more able, my honoured 
friend, to return you, with my own 
hand, thanks for the many instances of 
your friendship, and particularly for 
your kind anxiety in this last disaster 
that my evil genius had in store for 
me. However, life is chequered — joy 
and sorrow — for on Saturday morning 



* The poem to which the poet alludes is the 
•'Lament of Mary Queen of Scots." 



last, Mrs. Bums made me a present of 
a fine boy; rather stouter, but not so 
handsome as your godson was at hia 
time of life. Indeed I look on your 
little namesake to be my chef-d'oeuvre 
in that species of manufacture, as I 
look on ' ' Tam o' Shanter" to be my 
standard performance in the poetical 
line. 'Tis true, both the one and the 
other discover a spice of roguish wag- 
gery that might perhaps be as well 
spared; but then they also show, in 
my opinion, a force of genius, and a 
finishing polish, that I despair of 
ever excelling. Mrs. Burns is getting 
stout again, and laid as lustily about 
her to-day at breakfast as a reaper 
from the corn-ridge. That is the 
peculiar privilege and blessing of our 
hale, sprightly damsels, that are bred 
among the hay and heather. We can- 
not hope for that highly-polished 
mind, that charming delicacy of soul, 
which is found among the female 
world in the more elevated stations of 
life, and which is certainly by far the 
most bewitching charm in the famous 
cestus of Venus. It is indeed such an 
inestimable treasure that, where it can 
be had in its native heavenly purity, 
unstained by some one or other of the 
many shades of affectation, and unal- 
loyed by some one or other of the 
many species of caprice, I declare to 
heaven, I should think it cheaply pur- 
chased at the expense of every other 
earthly good ! But as this angelic 
creature is, I am afraid, extremely 
rare in any station and rank of life, 
and totally denied to such a humble 
one as mine, we meaner mortals must 
put up with the next rank of female 
excellence — as fine a figure and face 
we can produce as any rank of life 
whatever; rustic, native grace; unaf- 
fected modesty, and unsullied purity; 
nature's mother-wit, and the rudi- 
ments of taste; a simplicity of soul, 
unsuspicious of, because unacquainted 
with, the crooked ways of a selfish, in- 
terested, disingenuous world; and the 
dearest charm of all the rest, a yield- 
ing sweetness of disposition, and a 
generous warmth of heart, grateful 
for love on our pert, and ardently 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



469 



glowing with a more than equal re- 
turn; these, with a healthy frame, a 
sound, vigorous constitution, which 
your higher ranks can scarcely ever 
hope to enjoy, are the charms of lovely 
woman in my humble walk of life. 

This is the greatest effort my broken 
arm has yet made. Do let me hear, 
by the first post, how clier petit Mon- 
sieur'* comes on with the small-pox. 
May Almighty Goodness preserve and 
restore him ! 

R. B. 



No. CCXV. 
TO MR. ALEX. CUNNINGHAM. 

June II, 1791. 

Let me interest you, my dear Cun- 
ningham, in behalf of the gentleman 
who waits on you with this. He is a 
Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, principal school- 
master tliere, and is at present suffer- 
ing severely under the persecution of 
one or two powerful individuals of his 
employers. He is accused of harshness 
to boys that were placed under his 
care. God help the teacher, if a man 
of sensibility and genius, and such is 
my friend Clarke, when a booby father 
presents him with his booby son, and 
insists on lighting up the rays of 
science in a fellow's head whose skull 
is impervious and inaccessible by any 
other way than a positive fracture with 
a cudgel: a fellow whom in fact it 
savours of impiety to attempt making 
a scholar of, as he has been marked a 
blockhead in the book of fate, at the 
almighty fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat School are, 
the ministers, magistrates, and Town 
Council of Edinburgh, and as the busi- 
ness comes now before them, let me 
beg my dearest friend to do everything 
in his power to serve the interests of a 
man of genius and worth, and a man 
whom I particularly respect and es- 
teem. You know some good fellows 
among the magistracy and council , but 
particularly you have much to say 



* Mrs. Henri's child, and the grandchild of 
Mrs. Duclop. 



with a reverend gentleman to whom 
you have the honour of being very 
nearly related, and whom this country 
and age have had the honour to pro- 
duce. I need not name the historian 
of Charles V.* I tell him, through 
the medium of his nephew's influence, 
that Mr. Clarke is a gentleman who 
will not disgrace even his patronage. 
I know the merits of the cause 
thoroughly, and say it, that my friend 
is falling a sacrifice to prejudiced ig- 
norance. 

God- help the children of depend- 
ence ! Hated and persecuted by their 
enemies, and too ofien, alas ! almost 
unexceptionably, received by their 
friends with disrespect and reproach, 
under the thin disguise of cold civility 
and humiliating advice. Oh to be a 
sturdy savage, stalking in the pride of 
his independence, amid the solitary 
wilds of his deserts, rather than in civil 
ized life, helplessly to tremble for a 
subsistence, precarious as the caprice of 
a fellow-creature ! Every man has his 
virtues, and no man is without his 
failings; and curse on that privileged 
plain-dealing of friendship which, in 
the hour of my calamity, cannot reach 
forth the helping hand without at the 
same time pointing out those failings, 
and apportioning them their share in 
procuring my present distress. My 
friends, for such the world calls ye, 
and such ye think yourselves to be, 
pass by my virtues, if you please, but 
do, also, spare my follies; the first 
will witness in my breast for them- 
selves, and the last will give pain 
enough to the ingenuous mind without 
you. And, since deviating more or 
less from the paths of propriety and 
rectitude must be incident to human 
nature, do thou. Fortune, put it in my 
power always from myself and of my- 
self to bear the consequence of those 
errors ! I do not want to be independ- 
ent that I may sin, Tout I want to be 
independent in my sinning. 

To return in this rambling letter to 
the subject I set out with, let me re- 



* Dr. Robertson was uncle to Mr. Akz* 
Cunningham. 



470 



BUllXS' WORKS. 



commend my friend, Mr. Clarke, to 
your acquaintance and good offices; 
his worth entitles him to the one, and 
his gratitude will merit the other.'*' 
I long much to hear from you. Adieu ! 
R. B. 



No. CCXVI. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

Ei.LisLAND, June 1791. 

My Lord, — Language sinks under 
the ardour of my feelings when I would 
thank your lordship for the honour 
you have done me in inviting me to 
make one at the coronation of the bust 
of Thomson. In my first enthusiasm 
in reading the card you did me the 
lionour to write me, I overlooked 
every obstacle, and determined to go; 
but I fear it will not be in my power. 
A week or two's absence, in the very 
middle of. my harvest, is what I much 
doubt I dare not venture on. I once 
already made a pilgrimage iip the 
whole course of the Tweed, and fondly 
would I take the same delightful jour- 
ney doion the windings of that de- 
lightful stream. 

Your lordship hints at an ode for 
the occasion: but who v/ould write 
after Collins ? 1 read over his verses 
to the memory of Thomson, and de- 
spaired. . I got indeed to the length of 
three or four stanzas, in the w^ay of 
address to the shade of the bard; on 
crowning his bust I shall trouble your 
lordship with the subjoined copy of 
them, which, I am afraid, will be but 
too convincing a proof how unequal I 
am to the task. However, it affords 
me an opportunity of approaching your 
lordship, and declaring how sincerely 
and gratefully I have the hv)aour to 
be, &c., 

li. B. 

[Here follow the' verses, for which see 
p. 137.] 



* The poet addressed many letters to Mr. 
Clarke. After the death of her husband, Mrs. 
Clarke, taking offence at some freedom of ex- 
pression in them, committed them to the 
flames. 



No. CCXVII. 

TO MR. THOMAS SLOAN. 

Ellisland, Sept. i, 1791. 

My dear Sloan, — S-ispense is wors© 
than disappointment; for that reason I 
hurry to tell you that I just now learn, 
that Mr. Ballantine does not choose to 
interfere more in the business. I am 
truly sorry for it, but cannot help it. I 

You blame me for not writing you 
sooner, but you will please to recollect 
that you omitted one little necessary 
piece of information — your address. 

However, you know equally well 
my hurried life, indolent temper, and 
strength of attachment. It must be a 
longer period than the longest life " in 
the world's hale and undegenerate 
days," that will make me forget so 
dear a friend as Mr. Sloan. I am 
prodigal enough at times, but I will 
not part with such a treasure as that. 

I can easily enter into the embarras 
of your present situation. You know 
my favourite quotation from Young— 

" On Reason build Resolve ! 
That column of true majesty in man." 

And that other favourite one from 
Thomson's Alfred — 

" What proves the hero truly great, 
Is never, never, to despair." 

Or shall I quote you an author of 
your acquaintance ? 

" Whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by — persevering." 

I have nothing new to tell you. The 
few friends we have are going on in 
the old way. I sold my crop on this 
day se'ennight, and sold it very well. 
A guinea an acre, on an average, above 
value. But such a scene of drunken- 
ness was hardly ever seen in thia 
country. After the roup was over, 
about thirty people engaged in a bat- 
tle, every man for his own hand, and 
fought it out for three hours. Nor was 
the scene much better in the house. 
No fighting, indeed, but folks lying 
drunk on the floor, and decanting, un- 
til both my dogs got so drunk by at- 
tending them that they could not 
stand. You will easily guess how I 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENOE. 



m 



enjoyed the scene; as I was no further 
over than you used to see me. 

Mrs. B. and family have been in 
Ayrshire this many weeks. 

Farewell ! and God bless you, my 
dear friend I 

R. B. 



No. CCXVIII. 
TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM.* 

• Ellisland, Sept. 1791. 

My Lady, — I would, as usual, have 
availed myself of the privilege your 
goodness has allowed me, of sending 
you anything I composed in my poet- 
ical way; but as I had resolved so soon 
as the shock of my irreparable loss 
would allow me, to pay a tribute to 
my late benefactor, I determined to 
make that the first piece I should do 
myself the honour of sending you. 
Had the wing of my fancy been equal 
to the ardour of my heart, the enclosed 
had been much more worthy your pe- 
rusal; as it is, I beg leave to lay it at 
your ladyship's feet. As all the world 
knows my obligations to the late Earl 
of Glencairn, I would wish to show, as 
openly, that my heart glows, and shall 
ever glow, with the most grateful 
sense and remembrance of his lord- 
ship's goodness. The sables I did my- 
self the honour to wear to his lord- 
ship's memory were not the " mockery 
of woe. " Nor shall my gratitude perish 
with me ! If, among my children, I 
shall have a son that has a heart, he 
shall hand it down to his child as a 
family honour, and a family debt, that 
my dearest existence I owe to the noble 
liouse of Glencairn 1 

I was about to say, my lady, that if 
you think the poem may venture to 
Bee the light, I would, in some way or 
other, give it to th3 world, f 

R. B. 



* Sister of the Earl of Glencairn. Her lady- 
ship died unmarried, in August 1804. 

t "The Lament for James, Earl of Glen- 
4»ira"Seep. 13s 



No. CCXIX. 

TO COLONEL FULLARTON, OF 
FULLARTON.* 

Ellisland, Oct. 3, 1791. 

Sir, — I have just this minute got 
the frank, and next minute must send 
it to post, else I purposed to have sent 
you two or three other bagatelles that 
might have amused a vacant hour.about 
as well as " Six excellent new Songs," 
or the *' Aberdeen prognostications for 
the year to come." I shall probably 
trouble you soon with another packet, 
about the gloomy month of November, 
when the people of England hang and 
drown themselves— r.ri^thing general- 
ly is better than one's own thoughts. 

Fond as I may be of my own pro- 
ductions, it is not for their sake that I 
am so anxious to send you them. I 
am ambitious, covetously ambitious, 
of being known to a gentleman whom 
I am proud to call my countryman ; a 
gentleman who was a foreign ambas- 
sador as soon as he was a man; and a 
leader of armies as soon as he was a 
soldier; and that with an eclat un- 
known to the usual minions of a court 
— men who, with all the adventitious 
advantages of princely connexions and 
princely fortunes, must yet, like the 
caterpillar, labour a whole lifetime 
before they reach the wished-for 
height, there to roost a stupid chrysa- 
lis, and doze out the remaining glim- 
mering existence of old age. 

If the gentleman that accompanied 
yoii when you did me the honour of 
calling on me is with you, I beg to be 
respectfully remembered to him. I 
have the honour to be your highly- 
obliged and most devoted humble ser- 
vant, 

R. B. 



No. CCXX. 
TO MR. AINSLIE. 

E1.LISLAKD, 1791, 

My dear Ainslie, — Can you min- 
ister to a mind diseased? Can you, 

* Colonel Fullarton is honourably men- 
tioned in "The Vision." 



479 



BtTRNS' works: 



amid the liorrors of penitence, regret, 
remorse, lieadaclie, nausea, and all the 
rest of the damned hounds of hell that 
beset a poor wretch who has been 
guilty of the sin of drunkenness — can 
you speak peace to a troubled soul? 

Miserable perdu that I am, I have 
tried everything that used to amuse 
me, but in vain: here must I sit, a 
monument of the vengeance laid up in 
store for the wicked, slowly counting 
every chick of the clock as it slowly, 
slowly numbers over these lazy scoun- 
drels of hours; who, damn them, are 
ranked up before me, every one at his 
neighbour's backside, and every one 
with a burthen of anguish on his back, 
to pour on my devoted head — and there 
is none to pity me. My wife scolds 
me; my business torments me, and my 
sins come staring me in the face, every 
one telling a more bitter tale than his 
fellow. When I tell you even 



has lost its, power to please, you will 
guess something of my hell within, 
and all around me — I began "Eli- 
banks and Elibraes," but the stanzas 
fell unenjoyed and unfinished from 
my listless tongue: at last I luckily 
thought of reading over an old letter 
of yours, that lay by me in my book- 
case, and I felt something, for the 
first time since I opened my eyes, 

of pleasurable existence. Well — I 

begin to breathe a little, since I began 
to write to you. How are you, and 
what are you doing ? How goes Law ? 
Apropos, for connexion's sake do not 
address to me supervisor, for that is 
an honour I cannot pretend to — I am 
on the list, as we call it, for a super- 
visor, and will be called out by and by 
to act as one; but at present, I am a 
simple ganger, though t'other day I got 
an appointment to an excise division 
of £25 per annum better than the rest. 
My present income, down money, is 
£70 per annum. 

I have one or two good fellows here 
whom you would be glad to Jcnow. 

R. B. 



No. CCXXI. 

TO MISS DAVIES.* 

It is impossible, madam, that the 
generous warmth and angelic purity of 



* Those who remember the pleasing society 
which, in the year 1791, Dumfries affordecf, 
cannot have forgotten " the charming lovely 
Davies" of the lyrics of Burns. Her maiden 
name was Deborah, and she was the youngest 
daughter of Dr. Davies of Tenby in Pem- 
brokeshire ; between her and the Riddels 
of Friar's Carse there were ties of blood or 
friendship, and her eldest sister, Harriet, was 
married to Captain Adam Gordon «f the noble 
family of Kenmure. Her education was 
superior to that of most young ladies of her 
station of life ; she was equally agreeable and 
witty ; her company was much courted in 
Nithsdale, and others than Burns respected 
her talents in poetic composition. She was 
then in her twentieth year, and so little and so 
handsome that some one, who desired to com- 
pliment her, welcomed her to the Vale of Nith 
as one of the Graces in miniature. 

It was the destiny of Miss Davies to become 
acquainted with Captain Delany, a pleasant 
and sightly man, who made himself acceptable 
to her by sympathising in her pursuits, and 
by writing verses to her, calling her his 
" Stella,"— an ominous name, which might 
have brought the memory of Swift's unhappy 
mistress to her mind. An offer of marriage 
was made and accepted ; but Delany's cir- 
cumstances were urged as an obstacle ; delays 
ensued ; a coldness on the lover's part follow- 
ed ; his regiment was called abroad— he ent 
with it ; she heard from him once and no 
more, and was left to mourn the change of 
affection — to droop and die. He perished in 
battle, or by a foreign climate, soon after the 
death of the young lady of whose love he was 
unworthy. 

The following verses on this unfortunate 
attachment form part of a poem found among 
her papers at her death ; she takes Delany's 
portrait from her bosom, presses it to her lips, 
and says, 

" Next to thyself 'tis all on earth 

Thy Stella dear doth hold, 
The glass is clouded with my breath, 

And as my bosom cold : 
That bosom which so oft has glowed 

With love and friendship's name, 
Where you the seed of love first sowed. 

That kindled into flame. 

" You there neglected let it bum, 

It seized the vital part, 
And left my bosom as an urn 

To hold a broken heart : 
I once had thought I should have been 

A tender happy wife, 
And past my future days serene 

With thee, my James, through life." 

The information contained in this note wai 
obligingly communicated by H. P. Davie^ 
Esq., nephew of the lady.— CuNNiNgHAMi 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



473 



your youthful mind can have any idea 
of that moral disease under which 1 
unhappily must rank as the chief of 
sinners; I mean a torpitude of the 
moral powers, and that may be called 
a lethargy of conscience. In vain Re- 
morse rears her horrent crest, and 
rouses all her snakes: beneath the 
deadly-fixed eye and leaden hand of 
Indolence, their wildest ire is charmed 
into the torpor of the bat, slumbering 
out the rigours of winter in the chink 
of a ruined wall. Nothing less, mad- 
am, could have made me so long neg- 
lect your obliging commands. Indeed 
I had one apology — the bagatelle was 
not worth presenting. Besides, so 
strongly am I interested in Miss Dav- 
ies' fate and welfare in the serious 
business of life, amid its chances and 
changes, that to make her the subject 
of a silly ballad is downright mockery 
of these ard^mt feelings; 'tis like an 
impertinent jest to a dying friend. 

Gracious Heaven ! why this dis- 
parity between our wishes and our 
powers? Why is the most generous 
wish to make others blest impotent 
and ineffectual — as the idle breeze that 
crosses the pathless desert? In my 
walks of life I have met with a few 
people to whom how gladly would I 
have said — " Go, be happy ! I know 
that your hearts have been wounded 
by the scorn of the proud, whom acci- 
dent has placed above you — or worse 
still, in whose hands are, perhaps, 
placed many of the comforts of your 
life. But there ! ascend that rock. In- 
dependence, and look justly down on 
their littleness of soul. Make the 
worthless tremble under your indigna- 
tion, and the foolish sink before your 
contempt; and largely impart that 
happiness to others which I am cer- 
tain, will give yourselves so much 
pleasure to bestow ! " 

Why, dear madam, must I wake 
from this delightful reverie, and find 
it all a dream ? Why, amid my gen- 
erous enthusiasm, must I find myself 
poor and powerless, incapable of 
wiping one tear from the eye of pity, 
or of adding one comfort to the friend 
I love I Out upoft tiie wQrid 1 say 1, 



that its affairs are administered so ill I 
They talk of reform; — good Heaven I 
what a reform would 1 make among 
the sons, and even the daughters, on 
men ! Down, immediately, should go 
fools from the high places where mis 
begotten chance lias perked them up. 
and through life should they skulk 
ever haunted by their native insig 
nificance, as the body marches accom j 
panied by its shadow. As for a much I 
more formidable class, the knaves, 1 
am at aloss what to do with them: 
had I a world, there should not be a 
knave in it. 

But the hand that could give I 
would liberally fill : and I would pour 
delight on the heart that could kindly 
forgive, and generously love. 

Still the inequalities of life are, 
among men, comparatively tolerable — 
but there is a delicacy, a tender- 
ness, accompanying every view in 
which we can place lovely wo- 
man, that are grated an shocked 
at the rude, capricious distinctions of 
Fortune. Woman is the blood-royal 
of life: let there be slight degrees of 
precedency among them — but let them 
be ALL sacred. — Whether this last sen- 
timent be right or wrong, I am not ac- 
countable; it is an original component 
feature of my mind. 

B. B. 



No. CCXXII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Dec. 17, 1791. 

Many thanks to you, madam, for 
your good news respecting the little 
floweret and the mother plant. I hope 
my poetic prayers have been heard, 
and will be answered up to the warm- 
est sincerity of their fullest extent; 
and then Mrs. Henri will find her lit- 
tle darling the representative of his 
late parent, in every thing but his 
abridged existence. 

I have just finished the following 
song which, to a lady the descendant 
of Wallace — and many heroes of his 

truly illustrious line— and Uerself tbe 



474 



BURNS' WORKS. 



ii 



mother of several soldiers, needs 
neitlier preface nor apology. 

*' Scene— A field of battle— time of the 
day, evening; tJie icounded and dying 
of the mctorious army are supposed 
to join in the follomng 

SONG OF DEATH. 

•' Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, 
and ye skies, 
Now gay with the bright setting sun : 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, ter- 
- der ties— 
Our race of existence is run ! " 

(See p. 231.) 

The circumstance that gave rise to 
the foregoing verses was — looking over 
with a musical friend M'Donald's col- 
lection of Highland airs, I was struck 
with one, an Isle of Skye tune, enti- 
tled, ' ' Oran an Aoig, or, the Song of 
Death," to the measure of which I 
have adapted my stanzas. I have of 
late composed two or three other little 
pieces, which, ere yon full-orbed moon, 
whose broad impudent face now stares 
at old mother earth all night, shall 
have shrunk into a modest crescent, 
just peeping forth at dewy dawn, I 
shall find an hour to transcribe for you. 
A Dieuje vous commende. 

R. B. 



No. CCXXIII. 

TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, 
PRINTER. 

Dumfries, Jan. 22, 1792. 

I SIT down, my dear sir, to intro- 
duce a young lady to you, and a lady 
in the first ranks of fashion too. What 
a task ! to you — who care no move 
for the herd of animals called young 
ladies than you do for the herd 
of animals called young gentlemen. 
To you — who despise and detest the 
groupings and combinations of fashion, 
as an idiot painter that seems indus- 
trious to please staring fools and 
unprincipled knaves in the foreground 
of his picture, while men of sense and 
booest^ are too ofteo tUrowa in the 



dimmest shades. Mrs. Riddel,* who 
will take this letter to town with her, 
and send it to you, is a character that, 
even in your own way, as a naturalist 
and a philosopher, would be an acqui- 
sition to your acquaintance. The lady, 
too, is a votary of the muses; and, as 
I think myself somewhat of a judge in 
my own traie, I assure you that her 
verses, always correct, and often ele | 
gant, are much beyond the common j 
run of the lady -poetesses of the day. 
She is a great admirer of your book;f 
and, hearing me say that I was 
acquainted with you, she begged to be 
known to you, as she is just going to 
pay her first visit, to our Caledonian 
capital. I told her that her best way 
was to desire her^'near relation, and 
your intimate friend, Craigdarroch, 
to have you at his house while she was 
there; and, lest you might think of a 
lively West Indian girl of eighteen, as 
girls of eighteen too often deserve 
to be thought of, I should take care to 
remove that prejudice. To be impar- 
tial, however, in appreciating the 
lady's merits, she has one unlucky 
failing: a failing which you will easily 
discover, as she seems rather plepjsed 
with indulging in it; and a failing that 
you will easily pardon, as it is a sin 
which very much besets yourself; — 
where she dislikes, or despises, she is 
apt to make no more a secret of it than 
where she esteems and respects. 

I will not present you with the 
unmeaning compliments of the season, 
but I will send you my wannest wishes 
and most ardent prayers, that Fortune 
may never throw your subsistence to 
the mercy of a knave, nor set your . 
CHARACTER on the judgment of a* 
FOOL; but, that, upright and erect, you 
may walk to an honest grave, where 
men of letters shall say, " Here lies a 
man vho did honour to science," and 
men of worth shall say, "Here lies a 
man who did honour to human 
nature." 

R. B. 

* Mrs. Ridded of Woodlcy Park, near Dum- 
fries. She is to be carefully distinguished 
from Mrs. Riddel, of iriar's Carse, anoth«C 
friend of the poet's.— Chambers. 

t The Philosophy of Natural History, 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



m 



No. CCXXIV. 

TO MR. PETER HILL, BOOK- 
SELLER, EDINBURGH. 

Dumfries, Feb. 5, 1792. 

My dear Friend, — I send you by 
' the bearer, (Mr. Clark, a particular 
friend of mine,) six pounds and a 
shilling, which you will dispose of 
as follows: — Five pounds ten shillings, 
per account 1 owe Mr. R. Burn, arclii- 
tect, for erecting the stone over the 
grave of poor Fergusson. He was two 
years in erecting it, after I had com- 
missioned him for it; and I have been 
two years in paying him, after he sent 
me his account; soi^e and I are quits. 
He had the hardiesse to ask me 
interest on the sum; but, considering 
that the money was due by one poet 
for putting a tombstone over the 
grave of another, he may, with grate- 
ful surprise, thank Heaven that ever 
he saw a farthing of it. 

With the remainder of the money 
pay yourself for the " Office of a Mes- 
senger," that I bought of you; and 
send me by Mr. Clark a note of its 
price. Send me, likewise, the fifth 
volume of the "Observer," by Mr. 
Clark ; and if any money remain let 
it stand to account. 

My best compliments to Mrs. Hill. 

I sent you a maukin by last week's 
fiy, which I hope you received. — Yours 
most sincerely, 

R. B. 



No. CCXXV. 
"to MR. W. NICOL. 

Feb. 20, 1792. 

O THOU, wisest among the wise, 
meridian blaze of prudence, f ull jaoon 
of discretion, and chief of many coun- 
sellors ! How infinitely is thy puddle- 
headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, 
round-headed slave indebted to thy 
super-eminent goodness, that from the 
luminous path of thy own right-lined 
JKSJtitude, thou lookest benignly down 



on an erring wretch, of whom the zig- 
zag wanderings defy all the powers of 
calculation, from the simple copula- 
tion of units, up to the hidden myste- 
ries of fluxions ! May one feeble ray 
of that light of wisdom which darts 
from thy sensorium, straight as the 
arrow of heaven, and bright as the 
meteor of inspirrtion, may it be my 
portion, so that it may be less un- 
worthy of the face and favour of that 
father of proverbs, and master of max 
ims, that antipode of folly, and mag- 
net among the sages, the wise and witty 
Willie Nicol ! Amen ! Amen ! Yes, so 
belt! 

For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and 
know nothing ! From the cave of my 
ignorance, amid the fogs of my dul- 
ness, and pestilential fumes of my po- 
litical heresies, I look up to thee, as 
doth a toad through the iron-barred 
lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon, to 
the cloudless glory of a summer sun ! 
Sorely sighing in bitterness of soul, I 
say, when shall my name be the quo- 
tation of the wise, and my countenance 
be the deligbt of the godly, like the 
illustrious lord of Laggan'smany hills ? 
As for him, his works are perfect ! 
never did the pen of calumny blur the 
fair page of his reputation, nor the 
blot of hatred fly at his dwelling. 

Thou mirror of purity, when shall 
the elfin lamp of my glimmerous 
understanding, purged from sensual 
appetites and gross desires, shine like 
the constellation of thy intellectual 
powers ! As for thee, thy thoughts 
are pure, and thy lips are holy. Never 
did the unhallowed breath of the 
powers of darkness, and the pleasures 
of darkness, pollute the sacred flame 
of thy sky- descended and heaven- bound 
desires: never did the vapours of im- 
purity stain the unclouded serene of 
thy cerulean imagination. Oh, that 
like thine were the tenor of my life, 
like thine the tenor of my conversa- 
tion ! — then should no friend fear for 
my strength, no enemy rejoice in my 
weakness ! Then should I lie down 
and rise up, and none to make me 
afraid. May thy pity and thy prayer 
be exercised for, O thou lamp of wis* 



4're 



BURNS' WORKS. 



dom and mirror of morality ! thy de- 
Yoted slave,* 

R. B. 



No. CCXXVI. 

TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESQ., F S.A.f 
Dumfries, 1792. 

Sm, — I believe among all our Scots 
literati you have not met with Profes- 
sor Dugald Stewart, who fills the 
moral philosophy chair in the Univer- 
sity of Edinburgh. To say that he is 
a man of the first parts, and, what is 
more, a man of the first worth, to a 
gentleman of your general acquaint- 
ance, and who so much enjoys the lux- 
ury of unencumbered freedom and un- 
disturbed privacy, is not perhaps re- 
commendation enough: — but when I 
inform you that Mr, Stewart's princi- 
pal characteristic is your favourite 
feature; that sterling independence of 
mind, which, though every man's 
right, so few men have the courage to 
claim, and fewer still the magnanimity 
to support; when I tell you that, un- 
seduced by splendour, and undisgusted 
by wretchedness, he appreciates the 
merits of the various actors in the 
great drama of life, merely as they 
perform their parts — in short, he is a 
man after your own heart, and I com- 
ply with his earnest request in letting 
you know that he wishes above all 
things to meet with you. His house, 
Catrine, is within less than a mile of 
Sorn Castle, which you proposed visit- 
ing; or, if you could transmit him the 



* Mr. Nicol in a letter to the poet had given 
bim much good advice, hence the irony of his 
reply 

t Mr, Grose, in the introduction to his 
•'Antiquities of Scotland," acknowledges his 
obligations to Burns in the following para- 

ffraph, some of the terms of which will scarce- 
y fail to amuse the modern reader : 

" To my ingenious friend, Mr. Robert Burns, 
I have been seriously obligated ; he was not 
only at the pains of making out what was 
most worthy of notice in Ayrshire, the coun- 
try honoured by his birth, but he also wrote, 
expressly for this work, \.he pretty tale annex- 
ed to Alloway Church." 

Tlxis "pretty tale" being " Tarn o' Shanter !" 



enclosed, he would with the greatest 
pleasure meet you anywhere in the 
neighbourhood. I write to Ayrshire to 
inform Mr, Stewart that I have acquit- 
ted myself of my promise. Should 
your time and spirits permit your 
meeting with Mr. Stewart, 'tis well; if 
not, I hope you will forgive this lib- 
erty, and I have at least an opportu- , 
nity of assuring you with what truth 
and respect, I am, sir, your great ad- 
mirer, and very humble servant, 

R. B. 



No. CCXXVII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Dumfries, 1792. 

Among the many witch stories I 
have heard, relating to Alloway kirk, 
I distinctly remember only two or 
three. 

Upon a stormy night, amid whistling 
squalls of wind, and bitter blasts of 
hail; in short, oh such a night as the 
devil would choose to take the air in: 
a farmer or farmer's servant was plod- 
ding and plashing homeward with his 
plough^rons on his shoulder, having 
been getting some repairs on them at 
a neighbouring smithy. His way lay 
by the kirk of Alloway, and, being 
rather on the anxious look-out in 
approaching a place so well known to 
be a favourite haunt of the devil, and 
the devil's friends and emissaries, he 
was struck aghast by discovering 
through the horrors of the storm and 
stormy night, a light, which on his 
nearer approach plainly showed itself 
to proceed from the haunted edifice. 
Whether he had been fortified from 
above on his devout supplication, as is 
customary with people when they sus- 
pect the immediate presence of Satan; 
or whether, according to another 
custom, he had got courageously drunk 
at the smithy, I will not pretend to de- 
tennine; but so it was that he ventur- 
ed to go up to, nay, into, the very kirk. 
As luck would have it, his temerity 
came off unpunished. 

The members of the infernal junto 
were all out on some midnight business 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



477 



or other, and he saw nothing but 
a kind of kettle or caldron, depending 
from the roof, over the fire, simmering 
some heads of iinchristened children, 
limbs of executed malefactors, &c., 
for the business of the night. It was 
in for a penny in for a pound with the 
honest ploughman: so without cere- 
mony he unhooked the caldron from 
ott" the tire, and pouring out the dam- 
nable ingredients, inverted it on his 
head, and carried it fairly home, where 
it remained long in the family, a living 
evidence of the truth of the story. 

Another story, which I can prove to 
be equally authentic, was as follows: — 

On a market day in the town of Ayr, 
a farmer from Carrick, and conse- 
quently whose way- lay by the very 
gate of Alloway kirkyard, in order to 
cross the river Doon at the old bridge, 
which is about two or three hundred 
yards farther on than the said gate, 
had been detained by his business, till 
by the time he reached Alloway it was 
the wizard hour, between night and 
morning. 

Though he was terrified with a 
blaze streaming from the kirk yet it 
is a well-known fact that to turn back 
on these occasions is running by far 
the greatest risk of mischief, — he pru- 
dently advanced on his road. When 
lie had reached the gate of the kirk- 
yard, he was surprised and entertain- 
ed, through the ribs and arches of an 
old Gothic window, which still faces 
the highway, to see a dance of witches 
merrily footing it round their old sooty 
bhickguard master, who was keeping 
them ail aiivo wuh the power of his 
bagpipe. The farmer, sto]iping his 
horse to observe them a little, QMI-ld 
plainly descry the faces of many' old 
women of his acquaintance and 
neigiibourhood. How the gentleman, 
was dressed tradition does not say, 
but that the ladies were all in their 
smocks: and one of them happening 
unluckily to have a smock which was 
considerably too sliort to answer all 
thi- purpose of tlu'i ]■: -co of dress, our 
farmer was so licj.ied tiiat he invo- 
luntarily burst out. Wwu a loud la \' i. 
" Weel luppen, Maggy wi' liie Siioit 



sark !" and, recollecting himself, in- 
stantly spurred his liorse to the top of 
his speed. 1 need not mention the uni- 
versally known fact that no diabolical 
power can pursue you beyond the mid- 
dle of a running stream. Luckily it 
was for the poor farmer that the river 
Doon w^as so near, for notwithstanding 
the speed of his horse, which was a 
good one, against he reached the mid- 
dle of the arch of the bridge, and con- 
sequently the middle of the stream, 
the pursuing, vengeful hags, were so 
close at his heels that one of them ac- 
tually sprung to seize him ; but it was 
too late, nothing was on her side of 
the stream but the horse's tail, which 
immediately gave way at her infernal 
grip, as if blasted by a stroke of light- 
ning; but the fanner was beyond her 
reach. However, the unsightly, tail- 
less condition of the vigorous steed 
was, to the last hour of the noble crea- 
ture's life, an awful warning to the 
Carrick farmers not to stay too late in 
Ayr markets. 

The last relation I shall give, though 
equally true, is not so well identified 
as the two former, with regard to the 
scene, but, as the best authorities give 
it for Alloway, I shall relate it. 

On a summer's evening, about the 
time that nature puts on her sables to 
mourn the expiry of the cheerful day, 
a shepherd boy belonging to a farmer 
in the immediate neighbourhood of 
Alloway kirk had just folded his 
charge, and was returning liome. As 
he passed the kirk, in the adjoining 
field, he fell in with a crew of men 
and women, who were busy pulling 
stems of the plant Ragwort. He ob- 
served that, as each person pulled a 
Ragwort, he or she got astride of it, 
and called out, "Up horsie! " on which 
the Ragwort liew off, like Pegasus, 
through the air with its rider. The 
foolish boy likewise pulled his Rag- 
wort, and cried with the rest, ' ' Up 
horsie !" and, strange to tell, away he 
Hew with the company. The first 
stage at which the cavalcade stopt was 
a merchant's wine cellar m Bordeaux, 
wire re. without saying, " By youf 
I leave," they quaffed away at the best th© 



47$ 



BURNS' WORKS. 



cellar could afford, until the morning, 
foe to the imps and works of darkness, 
threatened to throw light on the mat- 
ter, and frightened them from their 
carousals. 

The poor shepherd lad, being 
equally a stranger to the scene and 
the liquor, heedlessly got himself 
drunk ; and when the rest took horse, 
he fell asleep, and was found so next 
day by some of the people belonging 
to the merchant. Somebody, that un- 
derstood Scotch, asking him what he 
was, he said such-a-one's herd in 
Alloway, and, by some means or other 
getting home again, he lived long to 
tell the world the wondrous tale. — I 
am,&c., 

R. B. . 



No. CCXXVIII. 
TO MR. J. CLARKE, EDINBURGH. 

July i6, 1792. 

Mr. Burns begs leave to present his 
most respectful compliments to Mr. 
Clarke. — Mr. B. some time ago did 
himself the honour of writing Mr. C. 
respecting coming out to the country, 
to give a little musical instruction in a 
highly respectable family,* where Mr. 
C. may have his own terms, and may 
be as happy as indolence, the devil, 
and the gout will permit him. Mr. B. 
knows well how Mr. C. is engaged 
with another family; but cannot Mr. 
C. find two or three weeks to spare to 
each of them? Mr. B. is deeply im- 
pressed with, and awfully conscious of., 
the high importa,nce of Mr. C.'s time, 
whether in the winged moments of 
symphonious exhibition, at the keys of 
harmony, while listening seraphs cease 
their own less delightful strains; or in 
the drowsy arms of slumberous repose, 
in the arms of his dearly-beloved 
elbow-chair, where the frowsy, but 
potent power of indolence circumfuses 
her vapours round, and sheds her 
dews on the head of her darling son. 
But half a line conveying half a mean- 



* The family to whom this letter refers was 
that of M'Murdo's of Drumlanrig. 



ing from Mr. C. would make Mr, Bi, 
the happiest of mortals. 



No. CCXXIX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Annan Water Foot, Aug. 22, 1792. 

Do not blame me for it madam — my 
own conscience, hackneyed and 
weather-beaten as it is, in watching 
and reproving'my vagaries, follies, in- 
dolence, &c., has continued to punish 
me sufficiently. 

Do you think it possible, my dear 
and honoured friend, that I could be so 
lost to gratitude for many favours, to 
esteem for much worth, and to the 
honest, kind, pleasurable tie of now I 
old acquaintance, and I hope and am 
sure of progressive, increasing friend- 
ship as for a single day not to think of 
you — to ask the Fates what they are 
doing and about to do with my much- 
loved friend and her wide scattered 
connexions, and to beg of them to be 
as ki^d to you and yours as they 
possibly can ? 

Apropos, (though how it is apropos, 
I have not leisure to explain,) do you 
know that I am almost in love with an 
acquaintance of yours ? Almost ! said 
I — I am in love, souse, over head and 
ears, deep a§ the unfathomable abyss 
of the boundless ocean; but the word 
love, owing to the intermingledoms of 
the good and the bad, the pure and the 
impure in this world, being rather 
an. equivocal term for expressing one's 
sentiments and sensations, I must do 
ju^ce to the sacred purity of my 
attachment. Know, then, that the 
heart-struck awe; the distant humble 
approach; the delight we should have 
in gazing upon and listening to a 
messenger of Heaven, appearing in 
all the unspotted purity of his celestial 
home, among the coarse, polluted, far 
inferior sons of men, to deliver to them, 
tidings that make their hearts swim iq 
joy, and their imaginations soar in 
transport — such, so delighting and so 
pure, were the emotions of my soul OQ 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



479 



meeting the other day with Miss 
Lesley Baillie, your neighbour, at 
M , Mr. B. with his two daugh- 
ters, accompanied by Mr. H. of G., 
passing through Dumfries a few days 
ago, on their way to England, did me 
the honour of calling on me; on which 
I took my horse, (though God knows I 
could ill spare the time,) and accom- 
panied them fourteen or fifteen miles, 
and dined and spent the day with 
them. 'Twas about nine, I think, 
when I left them, and, riding home, I 
composed the following ballad, of 
which you will probably think you 
have a dear bargain, as it will cost you 
another groat of postage. You must 
know that there is an old ballad 
beginning with — 

" My bonnie Lizzie Baillie, 

I'll rowe thee in my plaidie," &c. 

So I parodied it as follows, which 
is literally the first copy, ' ' unanointed, 
unanneal'd," as Hamlet says — 

" O saw ye bonny Lesley 
As she ffaed o'er the Border? 

She's g:ane like Alexander, 
To spread her conquests farther." 
(See p. 234.) 

So much for ballads. I regret that 
you are gone to the east country, as I 
am to be in Ayrshire in about a fort- 
night. This world of ours, notwith- 
standing it has many good things in it, 
yet it has ever had this curse, that two 
or three people, who would be the hap- 
pier the oftener they met together, are, 
almost without exception, always so 
placed as never to meet but once or 
twice a year, which considering the 
few years of a man's life, is a very 
great "evil under the sun," which 
I do not recollect that Solomon has 
mentioned in his catalogue of the 
miseries of man. I hope and believe 
that there is a state of existence beyond 
the grave, where the worthy of this 
life will renew their former intimacies, 
with this endearing addition, that, 
" we meet to part no more ! " 



"Tell us, ye dead, 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
'Wbat 'tis ygu are, and wf; must portly b? ? " 



A thousand times have I made this 
apostrophe to the departed sons *of 
men, but not one of them has ever 
thought fit to answer the question. 
"Oh that some courtous ghost would 
blab it out!" but it cannot be; you 
and I, my friend, must make the 
experiment by ourselves, and for our- 
selves. However, I am so convinced 
that an unshaken faith in the doctrines 
of religion is not only necessary, by 
making us better men, but also by 
making us happier men, that I should 
take every care that your little godson, 
and every little creature that shall call 
me father, shall be taught them. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, 
written at this wild place of the world, 
in the intervals of my labour of dis- 
charging a vessel of rum from An- 
tigua. R. B. 



No. CCXXX. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries, Sept. 10, 1792. 

No ! I will not attempt an apology. 
Amid all my hurry of business, grind- 
ing the faces of the publican and the 
sinner on the merciless wheels of the 
Excise; making ballads, and then 
drinking, and then singing them; 
and, over and above all, the correcting 
the press- work of two different pub- 
lications; still, still I might have 
stolen five minutes to dedicate to one 
of the first of my friends and fellow- 
creatures. I might have done, as I do 
at present, snatched an hour near 
"witching time of night," a^.d 
scrawled a page or two. I might 
have congratulated my friend on his 
marriage; or I might have thanked 
the Caledonian archers for the honour 
they have done me, (though to do my- 
self justice, I intended to have done 
both in rhyme, else I had done both 
long ere now.) Well, then, here is to 
your good health ! for you must know 
I have set a nipperkin of toddy by me, 
just by way of spell, to keep away tb« 
meikle-horned deil, or any of his sub- 
altern imps who ma^ be pa theil 
nightly rounds, 



4d0 



BURNS' WORKS. 



But what shall I write to you? — 
"The voice said, Cry," and I said, 
" What shall I cry ?"— thou spirit ? 
whatever thou art, or wherever thou 
jnakest thyself visible ! be thou a bo- 
gle by the eerie side of an auld thorn, 
in the dreary glen through which the 
herd callan maun bicker in his gloam- 
in' route frae the fauld ! — be thou a 
brownie, set, at dead of night, to thy 
task by the blazing ingle, or in the 
solitary barn, where the repercussions 
of thy iron flail half affright thyself, 
as thou performest the work of twenty 
of the sons of men, ere the cock-crow- 
ing summon thee to thy ample cog of 
substantial brose — be thou a kelpie, 
haunting the ford or ferry, in the 
starless night, mixing thy laughing 
yell with the howling of the storm 
and the roaring of the flood, as thou 
viewest the perils and miseries of 
man on the foundering horse, or in the 
tumbling boat ! — or, lastly, be thou a 
ghost, paying thy nocturnal visits to 
the hoary ruins of decayed grandeur; 
or performing thy mystic rites in the 
shadow of the time-worn church, 
while the moon looks, without a cloud, 
on the silent, ghastly dwellings of the 
dead around thee; or taking thy stand 
by the bedside of the villain, or the 
murderer, portraying on his dreaming 
fancy, pictures, dreadful as the hor- 
rors of unveiled hell, and terrible as 
the wrath of incensed Deity ! — Come, 
thou spirit, but not in these horrid 
forms; come with the milder, gentle, 
easy inspirations, which thou breathest 
round the wig of a prating advocate, 
or the tete of a tea-sipping gossip, 
while their tongues run at the light- 
horse gallop of clish-ma-claver forever 
and ever — come and assist a poor devil 
who is quite jaded in the attempt to 
share half an idea among half a hun- 
dred words; to fill up four quarto 
pages, while he has not got one single 
sentence of recollection, information, 
or remark, worth putting pen to paper 
for. 

I feel, I feel the presence of super- 
natural assistance ! circled in the em- 
brace of my elbow-chair, my breast 

labours, lifeetU^blo£^ted S7bil on her 



three-footed stool, and like her, too, 
labours with Nonsense. — Nonsense, 
auspicious name ! Tutor, friend, and 
finger-post in the mystic mazes of law; 
the cadaverous paths of physic; and 
particular! ' in the sightless soarings 
of SCHOOL DIVINITY, who, leaving 
Common Sense confounded at his 
strength of pinion. Reason, delirious 
with eyeing his giddy flight; and 
Truth creeping back into the bottom 
of her well, cursing the hour that ever 
she offered her scorned alliance to the 
wizard power of Tiieologic vision — 
raves abroad on all the winds. " On 
earth discord ! a gloomy heaven above, 
opening her jealous gates to the nine- 
teen thousandth part of the tithe of 
mankind ! and below, an inescapable 
and ftexorable hell, expanding its le- 
viathan jaws for the vast residue of 
mortals ! ! ! " — O doctrine ! comfortable 
and healing to the weary, wounded 
soul of man ! Ye sons and daughters 
of affliction, yepauvres miserables, to 
whom day brings no pleasure, and 
night yields no rest, be comforted ! 
" 'Tis but one to nineteen hundred 
thousand that your situation will mend 
in this world;" so, alas, the experience 
of the poor and the needy too often af- 
firms; and 'tis nineteen hundred thou- 
sand to one, by the dogmas of , 

that you will be damned etern&,lly in 
the world to come ! 

But of all nonsense, religious non- 
sense is the most nonsensical; so 
enough, and more than enough of it 
Only, by the by, will you, or can you, 
tell me, my dear Cunningham, why a 
sectarian turn of mind has always a 
tendency to narrow and illiberalise 
the heart? They are orderly; they 
may be just; nay, I have known them 
merciful; but still your children of 
sanctity move among their fellow- 
creatures with a nostril -snuffing pu- 
trescence, and a foot-spurning filth, in 
short, with a conceited dignity that 

your titled or any other 

of your Scottish lordlingsof seven cen- 
turies' standing display, when they ac- 
cidentally mix among the many-apron- 
ed sons of mechanical life. 1 remem- 
ber, iu my plou^hboy days. I could UOt 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



481 



conceive it possible that a noble lord 
could be a fool or a godly man could 
be a knave, — How ignorant are plough- 
boys ! — Nay, I have since discovered 

that a godly woman may be a i — 

But hold — Here's t'ye again — this rum 
is generous Antigua, so a very unfit 
menstruum for scandal. 

Apropos, how do you like, I mean 
really like, the married life ? Ah, my 
friend ! matrimony is quite a different 
thing from what your lovesick youths 
and sighing girls take it t<5 be ! But 
marriage, we are told, is appointed by 
God, and I shall never quarrel with 
any of his institutions. I am a hus- 
band of older stE^nding than you, and 
shall give you my ideas of the conju 
gal state {en passant; you know I am 
no Latinist, is not conjugal dferived 
iromjugum, a yoke?) Well then, the 
scale of good wifeship I divide into ten 
parts. — Goodnature, four; Good Sense, 
two; Wit, one; Personal Charms, 
viz. , a sweet face, eloquent eyes, fine 
limbs, graceful carriage, (I would 
add a fine waist too, but that is so soon 
spoilt, you know,) all these one; as 
for the other qualities belonging to, or 
attending on a wife, such as fortune, 
connexion, education, (I mean educa- 
tion extraordinary,) family blood, &c., 
divide the two remaining degrees 
among them as you please; only re- 
member that all these minor proper- 
ties must be expressed hy fractions, 
for there is not any one of them in 
the aforesaid scale, entitled to the dig- 
nity of an integer. 

As for the rest of my fancies and 
reveries — ^how I lately met with Miss 
Lesley Baillie, the most beautiful, ele- 
gant woman in the world — how I 
accompanied her and her father's fam- 
ily fifteen miles on their journey, out 
of pure devotion, to admire the loveli- 
ness of the works of God in such an 
unequalled display of them — how in 
galloping home at nigiit, 1 made a bal- 
lad on her, of which these two stanzas 
make a part — 

" Thou, bonnie Lesley,art a queen. 
Thy subjects we before thee ; 

Thou, bonnie Lesley, art divine. 
The hearts 9' roeo adore thee. 



" The very Deil he couldna scathe 

Whatever wad belang thee ! 
He'd look into thy bonnie face. 

And say, ' I canna wrang thee.' " 

— behold, all these things are written 
in the chronicles of my imagination 
and shall be read by thee, my dear 
friend, and by thy beloved spouse, my 
other dear friend, at a more convenieiit 
season. 

Now, to thee, and to thy before-df- 
signed 66»S6»w-companion, be given the 
precious things brought forth by the 
sun, and the precious things brought 
forth by the moon, and the benignest 
influences of the stars, and the living 
streams which flow from the fountains 
of life, and by the tree of life, for ever 
and ever 1 Amen 1 

B. B. 



No. CCXXXI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, Sept. 24, 1792. 
1 HATE this moment, my dear mad - 
am, yours of the 23d. All your other 
kind reproaches, your news, &c., are 
out of my head when I read and think 
on Mrs. Henri's situation. Good God 1 
a heart-wounded helpless young wo 
man — in a strange, foreign land, and 
that land convulsed with every horror 
that can harrow the human feelings — 
sick — looking, longing for a comforter, 
but finding none — a mother's feelings, 
too : but it is too much: He who 
wounded (He only can) may He heal ! 

I wish the farmer great joy of his 

new acquisition to his family. ! 

I cannot say that 1 give him joy of his 
life as a farmer. 'Tis, as a farmer 
paying a dear, unconscionable rent, a 
cursed life.! As to a laird farming his 
own property: sowing his own corn in 
hope; and reaping it, in spite of brit- 
tle weather, in gladness; knowing 
that none can say unto him, " What 
dost thou?" — fattening his herds: 
shearing his flocks; rejoicing at Christ- 
mas; and begetting sons and daugh- 
ters, until he be the venerated, gray- 
haired leader of ^little tribe— 'tis si 



483 



BURNS' WORKS. 



heavenly life ! but devil take the life 
of reaping the fruits that another 
must eat. 

Well, your kind wishes will be 
gratified, as to seeing me when I 
make my Ayrshire visit. I cannot 
leave Mrs. B. until her. nine months' 
race is run, which may perhaps be in 
three or four weeks. She, too, seems 
determined to make me the patriarchal 
leader of a band. However, if Heaven 
will be so obliging as to let me have 
them in the proportion of three boys 
to one girl, I shall be so much tlie 
more pleased. I hope, if I am spared 
with them, to show a set of boys that 
will do honour to my cares and name; 
but I am not equal to the task of rear- 
ing girls. Besides I am too poor; a 
girl should always have a fortune. 
Apropos, your little godson is thriving 
charmingly, but is a very devil. He, 
though two years younger, has com- 
pletely mastered his brother. Robert 
is indeed the mildest, gentlest creature 
I ever saw. He has a most surprising 
memory, and is quite the pride of his 
schoolmaster. 

You know how readily we get into 
prattle upon a subject dear to our 
heart — you can excuse it. God bless 
you and yours ! 

R. B. 



No. ccxxxn. 

TO THE SAME. 

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN ON THE 
DEATH OF MRS. HENRI, HER DAUGHTER.* 

Dumfries, Sept. 1792. 

I HAD been from home, and did not 
receive your letter until my return the 
other day. — What shall I say to com- 
fort you, my much-valued, much-af- 
flicted friend ! I can but grieve with 
you; consolation I have none to offer, 
except that which religion hold^ out 
to the children of affliction — children 
of affiictiGii! — how just the expres- 



* Mrs. Henri, daughter of Mrs. Dunlop, 
died at Muges^ near Aiguillony September 
15th, 1792. The above letter is one of condo- 
i?B(?e on tUis m^iaoQboly event, 



sion ! and, like every other family, 
they have matters among them which 
they hear, see, and feel in a serious, 
all-important manner, of which the 
world has not, nor cares to have, any 
idea. The world looks indifferently 
on, makes the passing remark, and 
proceeds to the next novel occurrence. 

Alas, madam ! who would wish for 
many years ? What is it but to drag 
existence until our joys gradually ex. 
pire, and leave us in a night of misery 
— like the gloom which blots out the 
stars one by one, from the face of 
night, and leaves us, without a ray of 
comfort, in the howling waste. 

I am interrupted^ and must leave 
off. You shall soon hear from me 
again. 

R. B. 



No. CCXXXHI. 

TO CAPTAIN JOHNSTON, EDITOR 
OF THE EDINBURGH GAZET-^ 

TEEB* 

Dumfries, Nov. 13, 1792. 

Sir, — I have just read" your pro- 
spectus of the Edinburgh Gazetteer. If 
you go on in your paper with the same 
spirit, it will, beyond all comparison, 
be the first composition of the kind in 
Europe. I beg leave to insert my name 
as a subscriber, and, if you have al- 
ready published any papers, please 
send me them from the beginning. 
Point out yoar own way of settling 
payments in this place, or I shall set- 
tle with you through the medium of 
my friend, Peter Hill, bookseller, in 
Edinburgh. 

Go on, sir ! Lay bare with undaunt- 
ed heart and steady hand, that horrifll 
mass of corruption called politics and 
state-craft. — Dare to draw in their na- 
tive colours these — 

" Calm, thinking villains whom no faith caa 

fix,"— 



* Captain Johnston originated, and for some 
time conducted the Gazetteer alluded to 
above ; but having, in the spring of 1793. 
offended the Government, he was seized and 
imprisoned, and the paper was shortly aftW" 
wards discontinued, 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



483 



svhatever be the shibboleth of their 
pretended party. 

The address to me at Dumfries will 
and, sir, your very humble servant, 
Robert Burns. 



I No. CCXXXIV. 

' TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, Dec. 6, 1792. 
I SHAJ.L be in Ayrshire, I think, 
next week; and, if at all possible, I 
shall certainly, my much-esteemed 
friend, have the pleasure of visiting 
at Dunlop House. 

Alas, madam I how seldom do we 
meet in this world, that we have rea- 
son to congratulate ourselves on acces- 
sions of happiness ! I have not passed 
half the ordinary term of an old man's 
life, and yet I scarcely look over the 
obituary of a newspaper that I do not 
see some names that I have known, 
and which I and other acquaintances 
little thought to meet with there so 
toon. Every other instance of the 
mortality of our kind makes us cast an 
anxious look into the dreadful abyss of 
imcertainty, and shudder with appre- 
hension for our own fate. — But of how 
different an importance are the lives 
of different individuals ! Nay, of what 
importance is one period of the same 
life, more than another ! A few years 
ago, I could have laid down in the 
dust, " careless of the voice of the 

1 morning;" and now not a few, and 

' these most helpless individuals, would, 
on losing me and my exertions, lose 
both their " staff and shield." By the 
way, these helpless ones have lately 
got an addition; Mrs. B. having given 
me a fine girl since I wrote you. There 
is a charming passage in Thomson's 
" Edward and Eleanora:" 

" The valiant, i>i himself^ what can he suffer ? 
Or what need he regard his single woes ? " &c. 

As I am got in the way of quota 
tions, I shall give you another from 
the same piece, peculiarly, alas ! too 
peculiarly apposite, my dear madam, 
to your present frame of mind ; 



" Who so unworthy but may proudly deck 

him 
With his fair-weather virtue, that exults 
Glad o'er the summer main ? the tempest 

comes, [helni 

The rough winds rage aloud ; when from the 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies 
Lamenting— Heavens ! if privileged from trial 
How cheap a thing were virtue ! " 

I do not remember to have heard 
you mention Thomson's dramas. I 
pick up favourite quotations, and 
store them in my mind as ready ar- 
mour, offensive or defensive, amid the 
struggle of this turbulent existence. 
Of these is one, a very favourite one, 
from his " Alfred;" 

" Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 

And offices of life ; to life itself. 

With all Its vain and transient joys, sit loose." 

Probably I have quoted some of 
these to you formerly, as indeed, 
when I write from the heart, I am apt 
to be guilty of such repetitions. The 
compass of the heart, in the musical 
style of expression, is much more 
bounded than that of the imagination; 
so the notes of the former are ex- 
tremely apt to run into one another; 
but in return for the paucity of its com 
pass, its few notes are much more 
sweet. I must still give you another 
quotation, which 1 am almost sure I have 
given you before, but I cannot resist 
the temptation. The subject is re- 
ligion — speaking of its importance to 
mankind, the author says, 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morn- 
ing bright." 

I see you are in for double postage, 
so I shall e'en scribble out t'other 
sheet. We, in this country here, 
have many alarms of the reforming, 
or rather the republican, spirit of your 
part of the kingdom. Indeed, we are 
a good deal in commotion ourselves. 
For me, I am a placeman, you know; 
a very humble one indeed. Heaven 
knows, but still so much as to gag me. 
What my private sentiments are, you 
will find out without an interpreter. 



I have taken up the subject, and the 
other day, for a pretty actress' benefit 
night, I wrote an address, which I will 



484 



BURNS' WORKS. 



give on tlie other page, called ' ' The 
Rights of Woman:" 

"While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty 
things." 

(See p. 139.) 

I shall have the honour of receiving 
your criticisms in person at Dunlop. 

R. B. 



No. CCXXXV. 

TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ., FINTRAY. 
December 1792. 

Sm, — I have been surprised, con- 
founded, and distracted by Mr. Mit- 
chell, the collector, telling me that he 
has received an order from your 
Board to inquire into my political con- 
duct, and blaming me as a person dis- 
affected to government. 

Sir, you are a husband — and a 
father. — You know what you would 
feel to see the much-loved wife of 
your bosom, and your helpless, prat- 
tling little ones turned adrift into the 
world, degraded and disgraced from a 
situation in which they had been re- 
spectable and respected, and left al- 
most without the necessary support of 
a miserable existence. Alas, sir ! must 
I think that such, soon, will be my 
lot ? and from the damned, dark insin- 
uations of hellish, groundless envy 
too ! I believe, sir, I may aver it, and 
in the sight of Omniscience, that I 
would not tell a deliberate falsehood, 
no, not though even worse horrors, if 
worse can be, than those I have men- 
tioned, hung over my head; and I say 
that the allegation, whatever villain 
has made it, is a lie ! To the British 
Constitution, on revolution principles, 
next after my God, I am most devout- 
ly attached; you, sir, have been much 
and generously my f rined. — Heaven 
knows how warmly I have felt the ob- 
ligation, and how gratefully I have 
thanked you. Fortune, sir, has made 
you powerful, and me impotent; has 
given you patronage, and me depend- 
ence. — I would not for my single self, 
call on your humanity; were such my 
insular, unconnected situation, I would 
despise the tear that now swells in my 



eye — I could brave misfortune, I could 
face ruin; for at the worst, " Death's 
thousand doors stand open;" but good 
God I the tender concerns that I have 
mentioned, the claims and ties that I 
see at this moment, and feel around 
me, how they unnerve courage, and 
wither resolution ! To your patronage, 
as a man of some genius, you have al- 
lowed me a claim; and your esteem, as 
an honest man, I know is my due. To 
these, sir, permit me to appeal; by 
these may I adjure you to save me 
from that misery which threatens to 
overwhelm me, and which, with my 
latest breath I will say it, I have not 
deserved. 

R. B. 



No. CCXXXVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, Dec. 31, 1792. 

Dear madam,— A hurry of busi- 
ness, thrown in heaps by my absence, 
has until now prevented my returning 
my grateful acknowledgments to the 
good family of Dunlop, and you in par- 
ticular for that hospitable kindness 
which rendered the four days 1 spent 
under that genial roof, four of the 
pleasantest I ever enjoyed. — Alas, my 
dearest friend ! how few and fleeting 
are those things we call pleasures ! on 
my road to Ayrshire, I spent a night 
with a friend whom I much valued; a 
man whose days promised to be many; 
and on Saturday last we laid him in 
the dust ! 

Jan. 2, 1793. 

I HAVE just received yours of the 
30th, and feel much for your situation. 
However, I heartily rejoice in your 
prospect of recovery from that vile 
jaundice. As to myself, I am better, 
though not quite free of my com- 
plaint. — You must not think, as you 
seem to insinuate, that in my way of 
life I want exercise. Of that I have 
enough; but occasional hard drinking 
is the devil to me. Against this I have 
again and again bent my resolution, 
and have greatly succeeded. Taverns 
1 have totally abandoned; it is the pri- 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENOE. 



m 



vate parties in the family way, among 
the hard drinking gentlemen of this 
country, that do me the mischief — but 
even this, I have more than half given 
over.* 

Mr. Corbet can, be of little service to 
me at present; at least, I should be 
shy of applying. I cannot possibly be 
settled as a supervisor for several 
years. I must wait the rotation of the 
list, and there are twenty names be- 
fore mine. — I might indeed get a job 
of officiating, where a settled super- 
visor was ill, or aged; but that hauls 
me from my family, as I could not re- 
move them on such an uncertainty. 
Besides, some envious, malicious devil 
has raised a little demur on my polit- 
ical principles, and I wish to let that 
matter settle before I offer myself too 
much in the eye of my supervisors. I 
have set, henceforth, a seal on my 
lips, as to these unlucky politics; but 
to you I must breath my sentiments, 

* " The following extract," says Cromek, 
" from a letter addressed by Robert Bloom- 
field to the Earl of Buchan, contains so inter- 
esting an exhibition of the modesty inherent 
in real worth, and so philosophical, and at the 
same time so poetical an estimate of the differ- 
ent characters and destinies of Burns and its 
author, that I should esteem myself culpable 
were I to withhold it from the public view. 

'* ' The illustrious soul that has left amongst 
us the name of Burns, has often been lowered 
down to a comparison with me ; but the com- 
parison exists more in circumstances than in 
essentials. That man stood up • with the 
stamp of superior intellect on his brow ; a 
visible greatness ; and great and patriotic 
subjects would only have called into action 
the powers of his mind, which lay inactive, 
while he played calmly and exquisitely the 
pastoral pipe. 

" ' The letters to which I have alluded in my 
preface to the "Rural Tales" were friendly 
warnings, pointed with immediate reference 
to the fate of that extraordinary man. "Re- 
member Burns !" has been the watchword of 
my friends. I do remember Burns: but I «;« 
fzot Burns ! neither have I his fire to fan or to 
quench ; nor his passions to control ! Where 
then is my merit if I make a peaceful voyage 
on a smooth sea, and with no mutmy on 
board? To a lady (I have it from herself). 
who remonstrated with him on his danger 
from drink, and the pursuits of .some of his 
associates, he replied, " Madame, they would 
not thank me for my company, if 1 did not 
drink with them. — I musi give them a slice of 
my constitution." How much to be regretted 
I that he did not give them thinner slices of his 
I constitution, that it might have lasted 
I looser I ' " 



In this, as in everything else. I shall 
show the undisguised emotions of my 
soul. War I deprecate: misery and 
ruin to thousands are in the blast tha^ 
announces the destructive demon. 

R. B. 



No. CCXXXVII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Jan. 5, 1793. 

You see my hurried life, madam; 1 
can only command starts of time; how- 
ever, I am glad of one thing; since I 
finished the other sheet, the political 
blast that threatened my welfare is 
overblown. I have corresponded with 
Commissioner Graham, for the Board 
had made me the subject of their ani- 
madversions; and now I have the 
pleasure of informing you that all is 
set to rights in that quarter. Now as 
to these informers, may the devil be 

let loose to but, hold J 

I was praying most fervently in my 
last sheet, and I must not so soon fall 
a swearing in this. 

Alas ! how little do the wantonly or 
idly oflBcious think what mischief they 
do by their malicious insinuations, in- 
direct impertinence, or thoughtless 
blabbings ! What a difference there 
is in intrinsic worth, candour, benevo- 
lence, generosity, kindness, — in all the 
charities and all the virtues — between 
one class of human beings and another. 
For instance, the amiable circle I so 
lately mixed with in the hospitable 
hall of Dun] op, their generous hearts 
— tlieir uncontaminated dignified 
minds — their informed and polished 

understandings what a contrast, 

when compared — if such comparing 
were not downright sacrilege — with 
the soul of the miscreant who can de- 
liberately plot the destruction of an 
honest man that never offended him, 
and with a grin of satisfaction see the 
unfortunate being, his faithful wife, 
and prattling innocents, turned over 
to beggary and ruin ! 

Your cup, my dear madam, arrivea 
safe. I had two worthy fellows din 
ing with me the other day, when I, 



4ga 



BtJRNS* WORKS. 



■with great formality, produced my 
wliigmaleerie cup, and told them that 
it had been a family-piece among the 
descendents of William Wallace, 
'fhis roused such an enthusiasm that 
they insisted on bumpering the punch 
round in it, and, by and by, never did 
your great ancestor lay a Suthron 
more completely to rest than for a 
time did your cup my two friends. 
Apropos, this is the season of wishing. 
May God bless you, my dear friend, 
and bless me, the humblest and sin- 
cerest of your friends, by granting you 
yet many returns of the season ! May 
all good things attend you and yours 
•wherever they are scattered over the 
earth ! 

R. B 



No. CCXXXVIIl. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAJVI. 

March 3, 1793, 

Since I wrote to you the last lugu- 
brious sheet, I have not had time to 
write farther. When I say that I had 
Hot time, that as usual means that the 
three demons, indolence, business, 
and ennui, have so completely shared 
my hours among them as not to leave 
me a five minutes' fragment to take 
up a pen in. 

Thank heaven, I feel my spirits 
buoying upwards with the renovating 
year. Now I shall in good earnest 
take up Thomson's songs. 1 daresay 
he thinks I have used him unkindly, 
and, I must own, with too much ap- 
pearance of truth. Apropos, do you 
know the much admired old Highland 
air called "The Sutor's Dochter ?" It 
is a first-rate favourite of mine, and I 
have written what I reckon one of my 
best songs to it. I will send it to you, 
as it was sung with great applause in 
Bome fashionable circles by Major 
Robertson, of Lude, who was here 
with his corps. 

There is one commission that I must 
trouble you with. I lately lost a val- 
uable seal, a present from a departed 
friend, which vexes me much. 



I have gotten one of j^our Highland 
pebbles, which I fancy would make t 
very decent one; and I want to cu{ 
my armorial bearing. on it; will you b« 
so obliging as inquire what will be the 
expense of such a business ? I do not 
know that my name is matriculated, 
as the heralds call it, at all; but I 
have invented arms for myself, so 
you know I shall be chief of the 
name; and, by courtesy of Scotland, 
will likewise be entitled to supporters. 
These, however, I do not intend hav- 
ing on my seal. I am a bit of a herald, 
and shall give you, secundum artem^ 
my arms. On a field, azure, a holly 
bush, seeded, proper, in base; a shep- 
herd's pipe and crook, saltier-wise, 
also proper, in chief. On a wreath of 
the colours, a wood-lark perching on a 
sprig of bay-tree, proper, for crest. 
Two mottoes; round the top of the 
crest. Wood notes wild; at the bottom 
of the shield, in the usual place. Bet- 
ter a wee hush than nae heild* By 
the shepherd's pipe and crook I do not 
mean the nonsense of painters of Ar- 
cadia, but a Stock and Horn, and a 
Cluh, >such as you see at the head of 
Allan Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edi- 
tion of the " Gentle Shepherd." By 
the by, do you know Allan ? He must 
be a man of very great genius — Why 
is he not more known ? — Has he no 
patrons? or do " Poverty's cold wind 
and crushing rain beat keen and 
heavy" on him? I once, and but 
once, got a glance of that noble edi- 
tion of the noblest pastoral in the 
w^orld; and dear as it was, I mean, 
dear as to my pocket, I would have 
bought it; but I was told that it was 
printed and engraved for subscribers 
only. He is the only artist who has 
his genuine pastoral costume. Wha,t, 
my dear Cunningham, is there in 
riches, that they narrow and harden 
the heart so ? I think that, were I as 
rich as the sun, I should be as gener- 
ous as the day, but as I have no rea 
son to imagine my soul a nobler one 



* The seal with the arms which the in^e- 
nius poet invented was carefully cut in Edin- 
burgh, and used by him for the remainder o| 
his life. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



487 



than any other man's, I must conclude 
that wealth imparts a bird-lime qual- 
ity to the possessor, at which the man, 
in his native poverty, would have re- 
volted. What has led me to this is 
the idea of such merit as Mr. Allan 
possesses, and such riches as a nabob 
or government contractor possesses, 
and why they do not form a mutual 
league. Let wealth shelter and cher- 
ish unprotected merit, and the grati- 
tude and celebrity of that merit will 
richly repay it. 

R. B. 



No. CCXXXIX. 

TO MISS BENSON, AFTERWARDS 
MRS. BASIL MONTAGU. 

Dumfries, March 21, 1793. 

Madam, — Among many things for 
"which I envy those hale, long-lived 
old fellows before the flood, is this 
in particular, that, when they met 
with any body after their own heart, 
they had a charming long prospect of 
many, many happy meetings with 
them in after-life. 

Now, in this short, stormy, winter 
day of our fleeting existence, when you 
now and then, in the chapter of acci- 
dents, meet an individual whose ac- 
quaintance is a real acquisition, there 
are all the probabilities against you 
that you shall never meet with that 
valued character more. On the other 
hand, brief as this miserable being is, 
it is none of the least of the miseries 
belonging to it, that if there is any 
miscreant whom you hate, or creature 
whom you despise, the ill-run of the 
chances shall be so against you that, 
in the overtakings, turnings, and jost- 
lings of life, pop, at some unlucky 
corner, eternally comes the wretch upon 
you, and will not allow your indignation 
or contempt a moment's repose. As I am 
a sturdy believer in the powers of dark- 
ness, I take these to be the doings of 
that old author of mischief, the devil. 
It is well-known that he has some 
kind of short-hand way of taking down 
our thoughts, and I make no doubt 
tliat }ie is perfectly acquainted with 



my sentiments respecting Miss Benson: 
how much I admired her abilities and 
valued her worth, and liow very fortu- 
nate I thpught myself in her acquaint- 
ance. For this last reason, my dear 
madam, I must entertain no hopes of 
the very great pleasure of meeting 
with you again. 

Miss Hamilton tells me that she is 
sending a packet to you, and I beg 
leave to send you the enclosed sonnet, 
though, to tell you the real truth, the 
sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may 
have the opportunity of declaring with, 
how much respectful esteem, I have 
the honour to be, &c., 

B. B. 



No. CCXL. 

TO PATRICK MILLER, ESQ. OP 
DALSWINTON. 

Dumfries, April 1793. 

Sir, — My poems having just come 
out in anotlier edition — will you do me 
the honour to accept of a copy ? A mark 
of my gratitude to you, as a gentleman 
to whose goodness I have been much 
indebted; of my respect for you, as a 
patriot who, in a venal, sliding age, 
stands forth the champion of the lib- 
erties of my country; and of my ven- 
eration for you, as a man whose be- 
nevolence of heart does honour to 
human nature. 

There loas a time, sir, when I was 
your dependant: this language then 
would have been like the vile incense, 
of flattery — I could not have used it. — 
Now that connexion is at an end, do 
me the honour to accept of this hone^ 
tribute of respect from, sir, your much- 
indebted humble servant, 

R. B. 



No. CCXLT. 

TO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, 
ESQ.,. OF MAR. 

Dumfries, April 13, 1793. 
Sm, — Degenerate as human nature 
is said to be— and, in many instance^, 



488 



BURNS' WORKS. 



worthless and unprincipled it is — still 
tliere are bright examples to the con- 
trary: examples that, even in the eyes 
of superior beings, must shed a lustre 
on the name of man. 

Such an example have I now before 
me, when you, sir, came forward to 
patronize and befriend a distant ob- 
scure stranger, merely because poverty 
had made him helpless, and his British 
hardihood of mind had provoked the 
arbitrary wantonness of power. My 
much esteemed friend, Mr. Riddel of 
Glenriddel, has just read me a para- 
graph, of a letter he had from you. 
Accept, sir, of the silent throb of grat- 
itude; for words would but mock the 
emotions of my soul. 

You have been misinformed as to 
my final dismission from the Excise; 1 
am still in the service. — Indeed, but 
for the exertions of a gentleman who 
must be known to you, Mr. Graham of 
Fintray — a gentleman who has ever 
been my warm and generous friend — I 
had, without so much as a hearing, 
or the slightest previous intimation, 
been turned adrift, with my helpless 
family, to all the horrors of want. — 
Had I had any other resource, proba- 
bly I might have saved them the 
trouble of a dismission ; but the little 
money I gained by my publication is 
almost every guinea embarked, to save 
from ruin an only brother, who, though 
one of the worthiest, is by no means 
one of the most fortunate of men. 

In my defence to their accusations, I 
said that whatever might be my sen- 
timents of republics, ancient or mod- 
ern, as to Britain, I abjure the idea: 
—That a constitution, which, in its 
original principles, experience had 
proved to be in every way fitted for 
our happiness in society, it would be 
Insanity to sacrifice to an untried vis- 
ionary theory: — That, in consideration 
of my being situated in a department, 
however humble, immediately in the 
hands of people in power, I had for- 
borne taking any active part, either 
personally, or as an author, in the 
present business of Reform. But 
tliat, where I must declare my senti- 
ments, I would say there existed a sys- 



tem of corruption between the execu- 
tive power and the representative part 
of the legislature, which boded no 
good to our glorious constitution ; 
and which every patriotic Briton must 
wish to see amended. — Some such sen- 
timents as these, I stated in a letter to 
my generous patron Mr. Graham, 
which he laid before the Board at 
large; where, it seems, my last remark i 
gave great offence; and one of our' 
supervisors-general, a Mr. Corbet, was 
instructed to inquire on the spot, and 
to document me — ' ' that my business 
was to act, not to think; and that, 
whatever might be men or measures, 
it was for me to be silent and obedient.'* 
Mr. Corbet was" likewise my steady 
friend; so between Mr. Graham and 
him, I have been partly forgiven; only 
I understand that all hopes of my get- 
ting officially forward are blasted. 

Now, sir, to the business in which 
I would more immediately interest 
you. The partiality of my country 
MEN has brought me forward as a 
man of genius, and has given me 
a character to support. In the 
Poet I have avowed manly and 
independent sentiments, which I 
trust will be found in the man. Rea- 
sons of no less weight than the sup- 
port of a wife and family, have pointed 
out as the eligible, and, situated as I 
was, the only eligible, line of life for 
me, my present occupation. Still my 
honest fame is my dearest concern; 
and a thousand times have I trembled 
at the idea of those degrading epithets 
that malice or misrepresentation may 
affix to my name. I have often, in 
blasted anticipation, listened to some 
future hackney scribbler, with the 
heavy malice of savage stupidity ex- 
ulting in his hireling paragraphs — 
"Burns, notwithstanding the fanfar- 
onade of independence to be found in 
his works, and after having been held 
forth to public view and to public es- 
timation as a man of some genius, yet, 
quite destitute of resources within 
himself to support his borrowed dig- 
nity, he dwindled into a paltry excise- 
man, and slunk out the rest of his in 

significant esistenoe in tih^ merest Qi 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



pursuits, and among tiie vilest of man- 
kind." 

In your illustrious hands, sir, per- 
mit me to lodge my disavowal and de- 
fiance of these slanderous falsehoods. 
BuKNS was a poor man from birth, 
and an exciseman by necessity: but — 
/ will say it ! the sterling of his honest 
worth no poverty could debase, and 
his independent British mind oppres- 
sion might bend, but could not subdue. 
— Have not I, to me, a more precious 
stake in my country's welfare, than 
the richest dukedom in it ? I have a 
large family of children, and the pros- 
pect of many more. I have three 
sons, who, I see already, have brought 
into the world souls ill -qualified to in- 
habit the bodies of slaves. — Can I 
look tamely on, and see any machina- 
tion to wrest from them the birthright 
of my boys, — the little independent 
Britons in whose veins runs my own 
blood ? — No ! I will not ! should my 
heart's blood stream around my attempt 
to defend it 1 

Does any man tell me that my full 
efforts can be of no service; and that it 
does not belong to my humble station 
to meddle with the concern of a na- 
tion? 

I can tell him that it is on such in- 
dividuals as I that a nation has to rest, 
both for the hand of support and the 
eye of intelligence. The uninformed 
MOB may swell a nation's bulk; and 
the titled, tinsel, courtly throng may 
be its feathered ornament; but the 
p number of those wdio are elevated 
' enough in life to reason and to reflect, 
yet low enough to keep clear of the 
venal contagion of a Court — these are 
a nation's strength ! 

I know not how to apologise for the 
impertinent length of this epistle; but 
one small request I must ask of you 
further — When you have honoured 
this letter with a perusal, please to 
commit it to the flames. Burns, in 
whose behalf you have so generously 
interested yourself, I have here, in his 
native colours, drawn as he is: but 
should any of the people in whose 
hands is the very bread he eats get 



the least knowledge of the picture, it 
would ruin the poor bard /or ever ! 

My poems have just come out in 
another edition, 1 beg leave to present 
you with a copy as a small mark of 
that high esteem and ardent gratitude 
with which I have the honour to be, 
sir, your deeply-indebted, and ever 
devoted humble servant, 

R. B. 



No. CCXLII. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

April 26th, 1793. 

I AM damnably out of humour, my 
dear Ainslie, and that is the reason 
why I take up the pen to you: 'tis the 
nearest way {probatum est) to recover 
my spirits again. 

I received your last, and was much 
entertained with it; but I will not 
at this time, nor at any other time, 
answer it. — Answer a letter ! I never 
could answer a letter in my life — I 
have written many a letter in return for 
letters I have received; but then — they 
were original matter — spurt away ! zig 
here; zag there; as if the devil, that 
my grannie (an old woman indeed) 
often told me, rode on will-o'-wisp, or 
in her more classic phrase, Spunkie, 
were looking over my elbow. — Happy 
thought that idea has engendered in 
my head ! Spunkie — thou shalt hence- 
forth be my symbol, signature, and 
tutelary genius ! Like thee, hap-step- 
and-loup, here-awa-there-awa higgle- 
ty-pigglety, pell-mell, hither- and-yont, 
ram-stam, happy-go-lucky, up tails-a'- 
by-the-light-o'-the-moon — has been, is, 
and shall be, my progress through the 
mosses and moors of this vile, bleak, 
barren wilderness of a life of ours. 

Come then, my guardian spirit ! like 
thee, may I skip away, amusing myself 
by and at my own light ! and if 
any opaque-souled lubber of mankind 
complain that my elfin, lambent, glim- 
merous Avanderings have misled his 
stupid steps over precipices, or into 
bogs; let the thick-headed Blunderbus* 



ilM.: 



400 



BUnNS' WORKS. 



recollect that he is not Spunkie- 
that 

Spunkie's wanderings could not copied be : 
Amid these perils none durst walk but he. 



I have no doubt, but scholar craft 
may be caught, as a Scotsman 
catches the itch, — by friction. How 
else can you account for it that born 
blockheads, by mere dint of Jiandling 
books, grow so wise that even they 
themselves are equally convinced of 
and surprised at their own parts? I 
once carried this philosophy to that 
degree that in a knot of country-folks 
who had a library amongst them, and 
who, to the honour of their good sense, 
made me factotum in the business; 
one of our members, a little, wise- 
looking, squat, upright, jabbering 
body of a tailor, I advised him, instead 
of turning over the leaves, to hind the 
hook on Ms hack. — Johnnie took the 
hint; and, as our meetings were every 
fourth Saturday, and Pricklouse hav 
lug a good Scots mile to walk in 
coming, and of course, another in 
returning. Bodkin was sure to lay his 
hand on some heavy quarto, or ponder- 
ous folio, with, and under which, 
wrapt up in his gray plaid, he grew 
wise, as he grew weary, all the way 
home. He carried this so far that an 
old musty Hebrew Concordance, which 
we had in a present from a neighbour- 
ing priest, by mere dint of applying it, 
as doctors do a blistering plaster, be- 
tween his shoulders. Stitch, in a dozen 
pilgrimages, acquired as much rational 
theology as the said priest had done by 
forty years' ])erusal of the pages. 

Tell me, and tell me truly, what you 
think of this theory. — Yours, 

Spunkie. 



No. CCXLIII. 

TO MISS KENNEDY, 
EDINBURGH. 

Madam, — Permit me to present yoa 
with the enclosed song* as a small, 



* " The Banks o' Doon.'' 



though grateful tribute, for the hon- 
our of your acquaintance. I have in 
these verses, attempted some faint 
sketches of your portrait in the unem- 
bellished simple manner of descriptive 
TRUTH. — Flattery, I leave to your 
LOVERS, whose exaggerating fancies 
may make them imagine you still 
nearer perfection than you really are. 

Poets, madam, of all mankind, feel 
most forcibly the powers of beauty; 
as, if they are really poets of nature's 
making, their feelings must be finer, 
and their taste more delicate than 
most of the world. In the cheerful 
bloom of SPRING, or the pensive mild- 
ness of autumn; the grandeur of 
summer, or the hoary majesty of win- 
ter, the poet feels a charm unknown 
to the rest of his species. Even the 
sight of a fine flower, or the company 
of a fine woman, (by far the finest 
part of God's works below,) have sen- 
sations for the poetic heart that the 
herd of man are strangers to. — On 
this last account, madam, I am, as in 
many other things, indebted to Mr. 
Hamilton's kindness in introducing me 
to you. Your lovers may view you 
with a wish, I look on you with 
pleasure: their hearts, in your pres- 
ence, may glow with desire, mine rises 
with admiration. 

That the arrows of misfortune, how- 
ever they should, as incident to hu- 
manity, glance a slight wound, may 
never reach your Jieart — that the 
snares of villany may never beset 
you in the road of life — that inno- 
cence may hand you by the path of 
UONOUR to the dwelling of peace, is 
the sincere wish of him who has the 
honour to be, &c. , 

R. B. 



No. CCXLIV. 
TO MISS CRAIK. 

Dumfries, Aug. 1793. 
Madam, — Some rather unlooked-foi 
accidents have prevented my doing 
myself the honour of a second 
visit to Arbigland, as I was so hos- 
pitably invited, and so positively 



GENERAL COnEHS^ONDENCE. 



493 



meant to have done. However, I still 
liope to have that pleasure before the 
busy months of harvest begin. 

I enclose you two of my late pieces, 
as some kind of return for the pleasure 
I have received in perusing a certain 
MS. volume of poems in the pos- 
session of Captain Riddel. To repay 
one with an old song, is a proverb, 
whose force, you, madam, 1 know, 
will not allow. What is said of illus- 
trious descent is, I believe, equally 
true of a talent for poetry, none ever 
despised it who had pretensions to it. 
The fates and characters of the rhym- 
ing tribe often employ my thoughts 
when I am disposed to be melancholy. 
There is not, among all the martyrolo- 
gies thai ever were penned, so rueful 
a narrative as the lives of the poets. — 
In the comparative view of wretches, 
the criterion is not what they are 
doomed to suffer, but how they are 
formed to bear. Take a being of our 
kind; give him a stronger imagination 
and a more delicate sensibility, — 
which, between them, will ever en- 
gender a more ungovernable set of 
passions than are the usual lot of 
man; implant in him an irresistible 
impulse to some idle vagary, such as 
arranging wild flowers in fantastical 
nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to 
his haunt by his chirping song, watch- 
ing the frisks of the little minnows in 
the sunny pool, or hunting after 
the intrigues of butterflies — in short, 
gend him adrift after some pursuit 
which shall eternally mislead him 
from the paths of lucre, and yet curse 
him with a keener relish than any man 
living for the pleasures that lucre can 
purchase; lastly, fill up the measure 
of his woes by bestowing on him a 
spurning sense of his own dignity, and 
you have created a wight nearly as 
miserable as a poet. To you, madam, 
I need not recount the fairy pleasures 
the muse bestows to counterbalance 
this catalogue of evils. Bewitching 
poetry is like bewitching woman: she 
has in all ages been accused of mis- 
leading mankind from the councils of 
wisdom and the paths of prudence, in- 
ToMng them in difficulties, baiting 



them with poverty, branding them 
with infamy, and plunging them in 
the whirling vortex of ruin; yet, 
where is the man but must own that 
all cur happiness on earth is not wor- 
thy the name — that even the holy 
hermit's solitary prospect of paradi- 
siacal bliss is but the glitter of a north- 
ern sun, rising over a frozen region, 
compared with the many pleasures, 
the nameless raptures that we owe to 
the lovely queen of the heart of man 1 

R. B. 



No. CCXLV. 
TO LADY GLENCAIRN. 

My Lady, — The honour you have 
done your poor poet, in writing him 
so very obliging a letter, and the 
pleasure the enclosed beautiful verses 
have given him, came very seasonably 
to his aid amid the cheerless gloom 
and sinking despondency of diseased 
nerves and December weather. As to 
forgetting the family of Glencaim, 
Heaven is my witness with what sin- 
cerity I could use those old verses 
which please me more in their rude 
simplicity than the most elegant lines 
I ever saw: — 

'■'• If thee, Jerusalem, I forget, 
Skill part from my right hand. 

" My tongue to my mouth's roof let cleave, 

If I do thee forget, 
Jerusalem and thee above 

My chief joy do not set." 

When I am tempted to do anything 
improper, I dare not, because I look 
on myself as accountable to your lady- 
ship, and family. Now and then, 
when I have the honour to be called 
to the tables of the great, if I happen 
to meet with any mortification from 
the stately stupidity of self-sufficient 
squires, or the luxurious insolence 
of upstart nabobs, I get above the crea- 
tures by calling to remembrance that I 
am patronized by the noble house 
of Glencairn: and at gala-times, such 
as New-year's day, a christening, or 
the kirn-night, when my punch-bowl 
is brought from its dusty corner and 
filled up in honour of the occasion, 



492 



BURNS' WORKS. 



I begin with, — The Countess of Olen- 
fairn! My good woman, witli the 
enthusiasm of a grateful heart, next 
<Ties, My Lord ! and so the toast goes 
on until I end with Lady Harriet's 
little angel* whose epithalamium I 
have pledged myself to write. 

When I received your ladyship's 
letter, I was just in the act of tran- 
scribing for you some verses I have 
lately composed; and meant to have 
sent them my first leisure hour, and 
acquainted you with my-late change of 
life, I mentioned to my lord my fears 
concerning my farm. Those fears 
were indeed too true; it is a bargain 
would have ruined me, but for the 
lucky circumstance of my having an 
Excise commission. 

People may talk as tliey please of 
the ignominy of the Excise; fifty 
pounds a year will support my wife 
and children, and keep me indepen- 
dent of the world; and I would much 
rather have it said that my profession 
borrowed credit from me than that 
I borrowed credit from my profession. 
Another advantage I have in this busi- 
ness, is the knowledge it gives me of 
the various shades of human character, 
consequently assisting me vastly in my 
poetic pursuits, I had the most 
ardent enthusiasm for the muses when 
nobody knew me but myself, and that 
ardour is by no means cooled now that 
my lord Glencairn's goodness has 
introduced me to all the world. Not 
that I am in haste for the press. I 
have no idea of publishing, else I cer- 
tainly had consulted my noble gener- 
ous patron; but after acting the part 
of an honest man, and supporting my 
family, my whole wishes and views 
are directed to poetic pursuits, I 
am aware that though I were to give 
performances to the world superior to 
my former works, still, if they were of 
the same kind with those, the compar- 
ative reception they would meet with 
would mortify me. I have turned my 
thoughts on the drama. I do not 



* Lady Harriet Don was the daughter of 
I„a(iy Giencairn. I 



mean the stately buskin of the tragie 
muse. 

Does not your ladyship think that 
an Edinburgh theatre would be more 
amused with affectation, folly, and whim 
of true Scottish growth, than manners, 
which by far the greatest part of the 
audience can only know at second 
hand ? — I have the honour to be, your i 
ladyship's ever-devoted and grateful * 
humble servant, 

R. B. 



No. CCXLVI. 

TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. 

Dumfries, Dec. 1793. 

Sir, — It is said that we take the 
greatest liberties with our greatest 
friends, and I pay myself a very high 
compliment in the manner in which I 
am going to apply the remark. I have 
owed you money longer than I have 
owed it to any man. — Here is Ker's ac- 
count, and here are six guineas; and 
now, I don't owe a shilling to man — 
nor woman either. But for these danm- 
ed dirty, dog's-ear'd little pages,* I 
had done myself the honour to have 
waited on you long ago. Independent 
of the obligations your hospitality has 
laid me under; the consciousness of 
your superiority in the rank of man 
and gentleman, of itself was fully as 
much as I ever could make head 
against; but to owe you money, too, 
was more than I could face. 

I think I once mentioned something 
of a collection of Scots song I have for 
some years been making; I send you a 
perusal of what I have got together. 
I could not conveniently spare them 
above five or six days, and five or six 
glances of them will probably more 
than suffice you. A very few of them 
are my own. When you are tired of 
them, please leave them with Mr. 
Clint, of the King's Arms, There is 
not another copy of the collection in 
the world; and I should be sorry that 
any unfortunate negligence should de- 



* Scottish bank-notesi 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCR 



493 



prive me of what has cost me a good 
deal of pains.* 

R. B. 



No. CCXLVII. 
TO JOHN M'MURDO, 
DRUMLANRIG. 



ESQ. 



Dumfries, 1793. 

Will Mr. M'Murdo do me the 
favour to accept of these volumes; a 
trifling but sincere mark of the very 
high respect 1 bear for his worth as a 
man, his manners as a gentleman, and 
his kindness as a friend ? However in- 
ferior, now, or afterwards, I may rank 
as a poet; one honest virtue to which 
few poets can pretend, I trust I shall 
ever claim as mine: — to no man, what- 
ever his station in life, or his power to 
serve me, have I ever paid a compli- 
ment at the expense of truth, f 

The Author. 



No. CCXLVni. 



TO CAPTAIN 



Dumfries, Dec. 5, 1793. 

Sir, — Heated as I was with wine 
yesternight, I was perhaps, rather 
seemingly impertinent in my anxious 
wish to be honoured with your ac- 
quaintance. You will forgive it: it 
was the impulse of heartfelt respect. 
"He is the father of the Scottish 
county reform, and is a man who does 
honour to the business at the same 
time that the business does honour to 
liim," said my worthy friend Glen- 



* The collection of songs mentioned in this 
letter is not unknown to the curious in such 
loose lore. They were printed by an obscure 
bookseller when death had secured him 
against the indignation of Burns. It was of 
such compositions that the poet thus entreat- 
ed the world— "The author begs whoever 
into whose hands they may fall, that they will 
do him the justice not to publish what he him- 
self thought proper to suppress. 

t These words are written on the blank leaf 
ol the poet's works, published in two small 
volumes m 1793; the handwriting is bold and 
free — the pen seems to have been conscious 
that It was making a declaration of indepen- 
denC«.^CUNNINGHAM. 



riddel to somebody by me who was 
talking of your coming to this country 
with your corps. " Then," 1 said, *• I 
have a woman's longing to take him 
by the hand, and say to him, ' Sir, I 
honour you as a man to whom tlie 
interests of humanity are dear, and as 
a patriot to whom the rights of your 
country are sacred.'" 

In times like these, sir, when our 
commoners are barely able, by the glim, 
mer of their own twilight understand- 
ings, to scrawl a frank, and when lords 
are what gentlemen would be ashamed 
to be, to whom shall a sinking country 
call for help? To the independent 
country gentleman. To him who has 
too deep a stake in his country not to 
be in earnest for her welfare; and who 
in the honest pride of man can view 
with equal contempt the insolence 
of office and the allurements of cor- 
ruption. 

I mentioned to you a Scots ode or 
song I had lately composed, and which 
I think has some merit. Allow me to 
enclose it. When I fall in with you 
at the theatre, I shall be glad to have 
your opinion of it. Accept of it, sir, 
as a very humble, but most sincere, 
tribute of respect from a man who, 
dear as he prizes poetic fame, yet 
holds dearer an independent mind. — I 
have the honour to be, R. B. 



No. CCXLIX. 
TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

WHO WAS ABOUT TO BESPEAK A PLAY 
ONE EVENING AT THE DUMFRIES 
THEATRE. 

I AM thinking to send my "Address" 
to some periodical publication, but 
it has not got your sanction, so pray 
look over it. 

As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg 
of you, my dear * madam, to give 
us, "The Wonder, a Woman Keeps a 
Secret'" to which please add, "The 
Spoilt Child " — you will highly oblige 
me by so domg. 



494 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Ah, what an enviable creature you 
are ! There now, this cursed gloomy 
blue devil day, you are going to a 
party of choice spirits — 

" To play the shapes 
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form 
Those rapid pictures, assembled train 
Of fleet ideas, never joined before, 
Where lively wit excites to gay surprise ; 
Or folly-painting humour^ grave himself, 
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every 
nerve." 

But as you rejoice with them that 
do rejoice, do also remember to weep 
with them that weep, and pity your 
melancholy friend. 

R. B. 



No. CCL. 
TO A LADY, 

IN FAVOUR OF A PLAYER'S BENEFIT. 

Dumfries, 1794. 

Madam, — You were so very good as 
to promise me to honour my friend 
with your presence on his benefit 
night. That night is fixed for Friday 
first; the play a most interesting one — 
' ' The Way to Keep Him. " I have 
the pleasure to know Mr. G. well. 
His merit as an actor is generally 
acknowledged. He has genius and 
worth which would do honour to 
patronage: he is a poor and modest 
man; claims which from their very 
silence have the more forcible power 
on the generous heart. Alas, for pity ! 
that from the indolence of those who 
have the good things of this life 
in their gift, too often does brazen- 
fronted importunity snatch that boon, 
the rightful due of retiring, humble 
want ! Of all the qualities we assign 
to the Author and Director of nature, 
by far the most enviable is — to be able 
' ' To wipe away all tears from all 
eyes." Oh, what insignificant, sordid 
wretches are they, however chance 
may have loaded them with wealth, 
who go to their graves, to their mag- 
nificent mausoleumH, with hardly the 
consciousness of having made one poor 
honest heart happy I 

But I crave your pardon, mnrliun; I 
came to beg, not to preach. K. B. 



No. CCLI. 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN, 

WITH A COPY OF BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO 
HIS TROOPS AT BANNOCKBURN. 

Dumfries, Jan. 12, 1794. 

My Lord, — Will your lordship 
allow me to present you with the en 
closed little composition of mine, as a 
small tribute of gratitude for the 
acquaintance with which you have 
been pleased to honour me? Indepen- 
dent of my enthusiasm as u, Scotsman, 
i have rarely met with anything 'u\ 
history which interests my feelings as 
a man equal with the story of Bannock- 
burn. On the one hand, a cruel, but 
able, usurper, leading on the finest 
army in Europe to extinguish the last 
spark of freedom among a greatly- 
daring and rreatly-injured people; on 
the other hand, the desperate relics of 
a gallant nation devoting themselves 
to rescue their bleeding country, or 
perish with her. 

Liberty ! thou art a prize truly and 
indeed invaluable ! for never canst 
thou be too dearly bought ! 

If my little ode has the honour of 
your lordship's approbation, it will 
gratify my highest ambition. — I have 
the honour to be, &c. , 

R. B. 



No. CCLII. 

TO CAPTAIN MILLER, 
DALSWINTON. 

Dear Sir, — The following ode* is 
on a subject which I know you by no 
means regard with indifference. O 
Liberty, 

" Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, 
Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the 
day." 

It does me much good to meet with 
a man whose honest bosom glows with 
the generous enthusiasm, the heroic 
daring of liberty, that I could not 
forbear sending you a composition of 

* Brace's Address, 



OENEItAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



m 



uiy o\\n on the subject, which I really 
think ib in my best manner. I have 
the honour to be, dear sir, &c. , 

R. B. 



ifo. CCLIII. 
TO MRS. RIDDEL.* 

Dear Madam, — I meant to have 
called on you yesternight, but as I 
edged up to your box- door, the first 
object which greeted my view was 
one of those lobster-coated puppies, 
sitting like another dragon, guarding 
the Hesperian fruit. On the conditions 
and capitulations you so obligingly of- 
fer, I shall certainly make my weath- 
er-beaten rustic phiz a part of your 
box-furniture on Tuesday; when we 
may arrange the business of the visit. 

Among the profusion of idle com- 
pliments, wnich insidious craft, or 
unmeaning folly, incessantly offer at 
y^our shrine — a shrine, how far exalt- 
ed above such adoration — permit me, 
were it but for rarity's sake, to pay 
rou the honest tribute of a warm 
(leart and an independent mind; and 
to assure you, that I am, thou most 
amiable, and most accomplished of 
thy sex, with the most respectful es- 
teem, and fervent regard, thine, &c., 

R. B. 



No. CCLIV. 
TO THE SAME. 

LL wait on you, my ever-valued 
friend, but whether in the morning I 
am not sure. Sunday closes a period 
of our curst revenue business, and may 
probably keep me employed with my 
pen until noon. Fine employment for 
a poet's pen ! There is a species of 
the human genus that I call the gin- 



* The following five letters to Mrs. Riddel, 
and those marked 267-8, evidently relate to 
the poet's quarrel with that lady : but, being 
without date, Dr. Currie has inextricably con- 
fused them. Probably No. 249 should be 
printed first, and the rest after an interval, as 
well as in a different arrangement.— Cham- 
bers. 



horse-class : what enviable dogs they 
are ! Round, and round, and round 
they go, — Mundell's ox, that drives 
his cotton mill, is their exact protO' 
type — without an idea or wish be- 
yond their circle; fat sleek, stupid, 
patient, quiet, and contented; while 
here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a 
damned melange of fretfulness and 
melancholy; not enough of the one to 
rouse me to passion, nor of the other 
to repose me in torpor: my soul floun- 
cing and fluttering round her tene- 
ment, like a wild finch, caught amid 
the horrors of winter, and newly thrust 
into a cage. Well, 1 am persuaded 
that it was of me the Hebrew sage 
prophesied, when he foretold — "And 
behold, on whatsoever this man doth 
set his heart, it shall not prosper ! " If 
my resentment is awaked, it is sure to 
be where it dare not squeak; and if 



Pray what wisdom and bliss be more 
frequent visitors of 

R. B. 



No. CCLV. 
TO THE SAME. 

I HAVE this moment got the song 
from Syme, and I am'sorry to see that 
he has spoilt it a good deal. It shall 
be a lesson to me how I lend him any- 
thing again. 

I have sent you " Werter," truly 
happy to have any the smallest op- 
portunity of obliging you. 

'Tis true, madam, I saw you once 
since I was at Woodlee; and that once 
froze the very life-blood of my heart. 
Your reception of me was such that a 
wretch meeting the eye of his judge, 
about to pronounce sentence of death 
on him, could only have envied my 
feelings and situation. But I hate the 
theme, and never more shall write or 
speak on it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, that 
I can pay Mrs. R. a higher tribute of 
esteem, and appreciate her amiable 
worth more truly, than any man whom 
I have seen approach her. 



Ata 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. CCLVI. 
TO THE SAME. 

I HAVE often told you, my dear 
friend, that you had a spice of caprice 
in your composition, and you have as 
often disavowed it; even perhaps while 
your opinions were, at the moment, 
irrefragably proving it. Could any- 
thing estrange me from a friend such 
as you ? — No ! To-morrow I shall have 
the honour of waiting on you. 

Farewell, thou first of friends, and 
most accomplished of women; even 
with all thy little caprices ! 

R. B. 



No. CCLVII. 
TO THE SAME. 

Madam, — I return your Common- 
place Book. I have perused it with 
much pleasure, and would have con- 
tinued my criticisms, but, as it seems 
the critic has forfeited your esteem, his 
strictures must lose their value. 

If it is true that "offences coriie 
only from the heart." before you I am 
guiltless. To admire, esteem, and 
prize you, as the most accomplished 
of women, and the first of friends — if 
these are crimes, I am the most offend- 
ing thing alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the 
kind complacency of friendly confi- 
dence, now to find' cold neglect and con- 
temptuous scorn — is a wrench that my 
heart can ill bear. It is, however, 
some kind of miserable good luck, 
tliat while de-haut- en-las rigour may 
depress an unoffending wretch to the 
ground, it has a tendency to rouse a 
btubborn something in his bosom 
which, though it cannot heal the 
wounds of his soul, is at least an opiate 
to blunt their poignancy. 

With the profoundest respect for 
your abilities; the most sincere es- 
teem, and ardent regard for your gen- 
tle heart and amiable manners; and 
the most fervent wish and prayer for 
your welfare, peace, and bliss, I have 



the honour to be, madam, you/mos| 
devoted humble servant, 

ft. B.* 



No. CCLVIII. 

TO JOHN SYME, ESQ.f 

You know that, among other high 
dignities, you have the honour to be 
my supreme court of critical judica- 
ture, from which there is no appeal. 
I enclose you a song which I composed 
since I saw you, and I am going to 
give you the history of it. Do you know 
that among much that I admire in the 
characters and manners of those great 
folks whom I have now the honour to 
call my acquaintances, the Oswald 
family, there is nothing charms me 
more than Mr. Oswald's unconcealable 
attachment to that incomparable wo- 
man. Did you ever, my dear Syme, 
meet with a man who owed more to 
the Divine Giver of all good things 
than Mr. O. ? A fine fortune; a pleas- 
ing exterior; self-evident amiable dis- 
positions, and an ingenuous upright 
mind, and that informed, too, much be- 
yond the usual run of young fellows 
of his rank and fortune: and to all 
this, such a woman ! — but of her I 
shall say nothing at all, in despair of 
saying anything adequate : in my song, 
I have endeavoured to do justice to 
what would be his feelings, on seeing, 
in the scene I have drawn, the habita- 
tion of his Lucy. As I am a good deal 
pleased with my performance, I in my 
first fervour thought of sending it to 
Mrs. Oswald, but on second thoughts, 
perhaps what I offer as the honest in- 
cense of genuine respect might, from 
the well-known character of poverty 
and poetry, be construed into some 
modification or other of that servility 
which my soul abhors. 

R. B. 



* The offended lady was soothed by this 
letter, and forgave any offence the poet had 
given her. 

t This gentleman held the office of distrib** 
tor of stamps at Dumfries. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



m 



No. CCLIX. 



TO MISS 



Dumfries, 1794. 



Madam,— Nothing short of a kind 
of absolute necessity could have made 
me trouble you with this letter. Ex- 
cept my ardent and just esteem for 
your sense, taste, and worth, every 
sentiment arising in my breast, as I 
put pen to paper to you, is painful. 
The scenes I have passed with the 
friend of my soul and his amiable con- 
nexioDS ! the wrench at my heart to 
think that he has gone, for ever gone 
from me, never more to meet in the 
wanderings of a weary world ! and 
the cutting reflection of all, that I had 
most unfortunately, though most un- 
deservedly, lost the confidence of that 
soul of worth, ere it took its flight ! 

These, madam, are sensations of no 
ordinary anguish. — However, you also 
may be oifended with some imputed 
improprieties of mine; sensibility you 
know I possess, and sincerity none will 
deny me. 

To oppose these prejudices, which 
have been raised against me, is not the 
business of this letter. Indeed it is a 
warfare I know not how to wage. The 
powers of positive vice I can in some 
degree calculate, and against direct 
malevolence I can be on my guard ; 
but who can estimate the fatuity of 
giddy caprice, or ward off the unthink- 
ing mischief of precipitate folly ? 

I have a favour to request of you, 

madam ; and of your sister, Mrs. , 

through your means. You k;iow that, 
at the wish of my late friend, I made 
a collection of all my trifles in verse 
which I had ever written. They are 
many of them local, some of them 
puerile and silly, and all of them unfit 
for the public eye. As I have some little 
fame at stake — a fame that I trust 
may live when the hate of those who 
•' watch for my halting," and the 
contumelious sneer of those whom ac- 
cident has made my superiors, will, 
with themselves, be gone to the regions 
of oblivion — I am uneasy now for the 
fate of those manuscripts, Will Mrs. 



have the goodness to destroy 

them, or return them to me ? As a 
pledge of friendship they were be- 
stowed; and that circumstance indeed 
was all their merit. Most unhappily 
for me, that merit they no longer pos- 
sess; and I hope that Mrs. 's good- 
ness, which I well know, and ever will 
revere, will not refuse this favour to a 
man whom she once held m some de- 
gree of estimation. 

With the sincerest esteem, I have 
the honour to be, madam, &c. , 

R. B. 



No. CCLX. 
MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Feb. 26, 1794. 
Canst thou minister to a mind dis- 
eased ? Canst thoa speak peace and 
rest to a soul tost on a 5ea of troubles, 
without one friendly star to guide hei 
course, and dreading that the next 
surge may overwhelm her? Canst 
thou give to a frame tremblingly alive 
as the tortures of suspense, the stabil- 
ity and hardihood of the rock that 
braves the blast ? If thou canst not 
do the least of these, why wouldst thou 
disturb me in my miseries, with thy 
inquiries after me ? 

For these two months I have not 
been able to lift a pen. My constitu- 
tion and frame were, ab origine, blast- 
ed with a deep incurable taint of hypo- 
chondria, which poisons my existence. 
Of late a number of domestic vexa- 
tions, and some pecuniary share in the 
ruin of these cursed times — losses 
which, though trifling, were yet what 
I could ill bear — have so irritated me 
that my feelings at times could not be 
envied by a reprobate spirit listening 
to the sentence that dooms it to per- 
dition. 

Are you deep in the language of 
consolation ? I have exhausted in re- 
flection every topic of comfort. A 
heart at ease would have been charmed 
with my sentiments and reasonizj/^**; 
but as to myself; I was like Judaa iiy 



4oa 



BURNS' WORKS. 



cariot preaching the gospel ; he might 
melt and mould the hearts of those 
around him, but his own kept its na- 
tive incorrigibility. 

Still there are two great pillars that 
bear us up, amid the wreck of misfor- 
tune and misery. The one is com- 
posed of the different modifications of 
a certain noble, stubborn something in 
man, known by the names of courage, 
fortitude, magnanimity. The other 
is made up of those feelings and senti- 
ments which, howev^er the sceptic may 
deny them, or the enthusiast disfigure 
them, are yet, I am convinced, original 
and component parts of the human 
soul; those senses of the mind — if I 
may be allowed the expression — which 
connect us with, and link us to, those 
awful obscure realities — an all-power- 
ful, and equally beneficent God, and 
a world to come, beyond death and the 
grave. The first gives the nerve of 
combat, while a ray of hope beams on 
the field: the last pours the balm of 
comfort into the wound which time 
can never cure. 

I do not rem. ember, my dear Cuji 
ningham, that you and I ever talketi 
on the subject of religion at all. I 
know some who laugh at it, as the 
trick of the crafty few, to lead the 
Tindiscerning MANY; or at the most as 
an uncertain obscurity, which mankind 
can never know anything of, and with 
which they are fools if they give them- 
selves much to do. Nor would I 
quarrel with a man for his irreligion, 
£.ny more than 1 would for his want of 
a musical ear. I would regret that 
he was shut out from what, to me and 
to others, were such superlative sources 
of enjoyment. It is in this point of 
view, and for this reason, that I will 
deeply imbue the mind of every child 
of mine with religion. If my son 
should happen to be a man of feeling, 
sentiment and taste, I shall thus add 
largely to his enjoyments. Let me 
flatter myself that this sweet little fel- 
low, who is just now running about 
my desk, will be a man of a melting, 
ardent, glowing heart; and an imagi- 
nation, delighted with the painter, and 
rapt with the poet. Let me figure him 



wandering out in a sweet evenj^, to 
inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the 
growing luxuriance of the spring, him- 
self the while in the blooming youth 
of life. He looks abroad on all nature, 
and through nature up to nature's 
God. His soul, by swift, delighting 
degrees, is rapt above tliis sublunary 
sphere until he can be silent no longer, 
and bursts out into the glorious enthu- 
siasm of Thomson — 

"These, as they change, Almighty Father^ 

these 
Are but the varied God. — The rolling year 
Is full of thee ;" 

and so on, in all the spirit and ardour 
of that charming hymn. These are no 
ideal pleasures, they are real delights; 
and I ask, what of the delights among 
the sons of men are superior, not to 
say, equal to them ! And they have 
this precious, vast addition — that con- 
scious virtue stamps them for her own; 
and lays hold on them to bring herself 
into the presence of a witnessing, judg- 
ing and approving God. 

R. B. 



No. CCLXI. 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

May 1794. 

My Lord, — When you cast your 
eye on the name at the bottom of this 
letter, and on the title-page of the 
book I do myself the honour to send 
your lordship, a more pleasurable feel- 
ing than my vanity tells me that it 
must be a name not entirely unknown 
to you. The generous patronage of 
your late illustrious brother found me 
in the lowest obscurity: he introduced 
my rustic muse to the partiality of my 
country; and to him I owe all. My 
sense of his goodness, and the anguish 
of my soul at losing my truly noble 
protector and friend, I have endeav- 
oured to express in a poem to his mem- 
ory, which I have now published. 
This edition is just from the press; 
and in my gratitude to the dead, and 
my respect for the living, (fame belies 
you, my lord, if you possess not the 
same dignitv of man which was yom 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



noble brother's cliaracteristic feature, ) 
I had destined a copy for the Earl of 
Qlencairn. I learnt just now that you 
are in town: — allow me to present it 
you. 

I know, my lord, such is the vile, 
venal contagion which pervades the 
world of letters, that professions of 
respect from an author, particularly 
from a poet to a lord, are more than 
suspicious. I claim my by-past con- 
duct, and my feelings at this moment, 
as exceptions to the too just conclusion. 
Exalted as are the honours of you>r 
lordship's name, and unnoted as is the 
obscurity of mine; with the upright- 
ness of an honest man, I come before 
your lordship, with an offering, how- 
ever humble — 'tis all I have to give — 
of my grateful respect; and to beg of 
you, my lord, — 'tis all I have to ask of 
you — that you will do me the honour 
to accept of it. — I have the honour to 
be, R. B. 



No. CCLXII. 
TO DAVID MACCULLOCH, ESQ. 

Dumfries, June 21, 1794. 
My dear Sir, — My long projected 

J'ourney through your country is at 
ast fixed: and on Wednesday next, if 
you have nothing of more importance 
to do, take a saunter down to Gate- 
house about two or three o'clock. I 
shall be happy to take a draught of 
M'Kune's best with you. Collector 
Syme will be at Glens about that time, 
and will meet us about dish-of-tea 
liour. Syme goes also to Kerrough- 
tree, and let me remind you of your 
kind promise to accompany me there; 
I will need all the friends I can muster, 
for I am indeed ill at ease whenever I 
approach your honourables and right 
honourables.— Yours sincitrely, 

R. B.* 



* The endorsement on the back of the 
original letter shows what is felt about Burns 
in far distant lands. 
" Given to me by David M'Culloch, Penang, 

1801. A. Fraser." 
"Received 15th December, 1823, in Calcutta, 
from Captain Fraser's widow by me, 
Thomas Rankine." 



No. CCLXIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Castle Douglas, June 25, 1794. 

Here, in a solitary inn, in a solitary 
village, am I set by myself, to amuse 
my brooding fancy as I may. — Solitary 
confinement, you know, is Howard's 
favourite idea of reclaiming sinners, 
so let me consider by what fatality 
it happens that I have so long been 
so exceeding sinful as to neglect the 
correspondence of the most valued 
friend I have on earth. To tell you 
that I have been in poor health will 
not be excuse enough, though it is 
true. I am afraid that I am about 
to suffer for the follies of my youth. 
My medical friends threaten me with 
a flying gout; but I trust they are 
mistaken. 

I am just going to trouble your 
critical patience with the first sketch 
of a stanza I have been framing as I 
passed along the road. The subject is 
liberty: you know, my honoured friend, 
how dear the theme is to me. I design 
it as an irregular ode for General 
Washington's birth-day. After hav- 
ing mentioned the degeneracy of other 
kingdoms, I come to Scotland thus: — 

"Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among. 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song. 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of Freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! [lies ! 

Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 

Ye babbling winds in silence sweep, 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep." 

with the additions of 

"That arm which, nerved with thundering 
fate, 
Braved usurpation's boldest daring !* [star, 
One quenched in darkness, like the sinking 
And one the palsied arm oif tottering power- 
less age." 

(See Fragment on Liberty, p. 144.) 

You will probably have another 
scrawl from me in a stage or two. 

R. B. 



Transmitted to Archibald Hastie, Esq., 
London ; March 27th, 1824, from Boaw 
bay." 

Sir William Wallace. 



«00 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. CCLXIV. 
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON. 

Dumfries, 1794. 

My dear Friend, — You sliould 
have heard from me long ago; but 
over and above some vexatious share 
in the pecuniary losses of these accurs- 
ed times, I have all this winter been 
plagued with low spirits and blue 
devils, so that / have almost hung my 
harp on the willow trees. 

I am just now busy correcting a new 
edition of my poems, and this, with 
my ordinary business, finds me in full 
employment. 

I send you by my friend, Mr. Wal- 
lace, forty-one songs for your fifth 
volume; if we cannot finish it in any 
other way, what would you think 
of Scots words to some beautiful Irish 
airs ? In the meantime, at your leisure, 
give a copy of the Museum to my 
worthy friend, Mr. Peter Hill, book- 
seller, to bind for me, interleaved with 
blank leaves, exactly as he did the 
Laird of Glenriddel's, that I may insert 
every anecdote I can learn, together 
with my own criticisms and remarks 
on the songs. A copy of this kind, 
I shall leave with you, the editor, 
to publish at some after period, by way 
of making the Museum a book famous 
to the end of time, and you renowned 
for ever.* 

I have got a Highland dirk, for 
which I have great veneration; as 
it once was the dirk of Lord Balmerino. 
It fell into bad hands, who stripped it 
of the silver mounting, as well as the 
knife and fork. I have some thoughts 
of sending it to your care, to get it 
mounted anew. 

Thank you for the copies of my 
Volunteer Ballad. — Our friend Clarke 
has done indeed well ! 'tis chaste and 
beautiful. I have not met with any- 
thing that has pleased me so much. 



* Burns' anxiety with regard to the correct- 
ness of his writings was very great. Being 
questioned as to his mode of composition, he 
replied, " All my poetry is the effect of easy 
composition, but of laborious correction.'"— 
Cromek. 



You know I am no connoisseur: but 
that I am an amateur, will be allowed 
me. R. B 



No. CCLXV. 

TO PETER MILLER, JUN., ESQ. 
OF DALSWINTON. 

Dumfries, Nov. 1794. j 

Dear Sir, — Your offer is indeed 
truly generous, and most sincerely 
do I thank you for it; but, in my 
present situation, I find that I dare not 
accept it. You well know my political 
sentiments; and were I an insular 
individual, unconnected with a wife 
and family of children, with the most 
fervid enthusiasm I would have volun- 
teered my services; I then could and 
would have despised all consequences 
that might have ensued. 

My prospect in the Excise is some- 
thing; at least, it is, encumbered as I 
am with the welfare, the very exist- 
ence of near half-a-score of helpless 
individuals, what I dare not sport 
with. 

In the meantime, they are most 
welcome to my Ode; only, let them in- 
sert it as a thing they have met with 
by accident and unknown to me. Nay, 
if Mr. Perry, whose honour, after 
your character of him I cannot doubt, 
if he will give me an address and chan- 
nel by which anything will come safe 
from those spies with which he may 
be certain that his correspondence is 
beset, I will now and then send him a 
bagatelle that I may write. In the 
present hurry of Europe, nothing but 
news and politics will be regarded; 
but against the days of peace, which 
Heaven send soon, my little assistance 
may perhaps fill up an idle column of 
a newspaper.. I have long had it in 
my head to try my hand in the way of 
little prose essays, which I propose 
sending into the world through the 
medium of some newspaper ; and 
should these be worth his while, to 
these Mr. Perry shall be welcome; an(i 
all my reward shall be his treating me 
with his paper, which, by the by, to 
anybody who has the least relish for 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



501 



wit, is a liigli treat indeed.* — With 
the most grateful esteem, 1 am ever, 
dear sir, 

R. B. 



No. CCLXVl. 

TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE, JUN., 
DUMFRIES. 

Sunday Morning. 

Dear Sir, — I was, I know, drunk 
last night, but I am sober tliis morn- 
ing. From the expressions Capt. 

made use of to me, had I had nobody's 
welfare to care for but my own, we 
sfliould certainly have come, according 
to the manners of the world, to the 
necessity of murdering one another 
about the business. The words were 
such as generally, I believe, end in a 
brace of pistols; but I am still pleased 
to think that I did not ruin the peace 
and welfare of a wife and a family of 
children in a drunken squabble. Fur- 
ther you know that the report of cer- 
tain political opinions being mine has 
already once before brought me to the 
brink of destruction. I dread lest last 
night's business may be misrepresent- 
ed in the same way. You, I beg, will 
take care to prevent it. I tax your 
wish, for Mr. Burns' welfare, with the 
task of waiting, as soon as possible, oh 
every gentleman who was present, and 
state this to him and, as you please, 
show him this letter. What, after all, 
was the obnoxious toast ? ' ' May our 
success in the present war be equal to 
the justice of our cause " — a toast that 
the most outrageous frenzy of loyalty 
cannot object to. I request and beg 

* In a conversation with his friend Mr. 
Perry, (the proprietor of the Morning 
Chronicle^ Mr. Miller represented to that 
gentleman the insufficiency of Burns' salary 
to answer the imperious demands of a numer- 
ous family. In their sympathy for his misfor- 
tunes, and in their regret that his talents were 
nearly lost to the world of letters, these gen- 
tlemen agreed on the plan of settling him in 
London. To accomplish this most desirable 
object, Mr. Perry, very spiritedly, made the 
poet a handsome offer of an annual stipend 
lor the exercise of his talents in his news- 
paper. Burns* reasons for refusing this 
offer are stated ia the present letter.— 
Cromek. 



that this morning you will wait on the 
parties present at the foolish dispute 
I shall only add that 1 am truly sorrj 
that a man who stood so high in my 

estimation as Mr. , should use me 

in the manner in which I conceive he 
has done. 

R. B. 



No. CCLXVIL 
TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

SUPPOSES HIMSELF TO BE WRITING 
FROM THE DEAD TO THE LIVING. 

Dumfries, 1795. 

Madam, — I daresay that this is the 
first epistle you ever received from 
this nether world. I write you from 
the regions of hell, amid the horrors 
of the damned. The time and man- 
ner of my leaving your earth I do Mot 
exactly know, as I took my departure 
in the heat of a fever of intoxication, 
contracted at your too hospitable man- 
sion; but, on my arrival here, I was 
fairly tried, and sentenced to endure 
the purgatonal tortures of this infernal 
confine for the space of ninety -nine 
years, eleven months, and twenty-nine 
days, and all on account of the impro- 
priety of my conduct yesternight un- 
der your roof. Here am I, laid on a 
bed of pitiless furze, with my aching 
head reclined on a pillow of ever- 
piercing thorn, while an infernal tor- 
mentor, wrinkled, and old, and cruel, 
his name I think is Ilccollection, with 
a whip of scorpions, forbids peace or 
rest to approach me, and keeps an- 
guish eternally awake. Still, madam, 
if I could in any measure be reinstated 
in the good opinion^ of the fair circle 
whom my conduct last night so much 
injured, I think it would be an allevia- 
tion to my torments. For this reason 
I trouble you with this letter. To the 
men of the company I will make no 
apology. Your husband, who insisted 
on my drinking more than I chose, 
has no right to blame me; and the 
other gentlemen were partakers of my 
guilt. But to yoU; madam. I have to 
apologise. Your good opinioa I vrJ- 



S02 



BURNS' WOBKS. 



ued as one of the greatest acquisitions 
I had made on earth, and I was truly 
a beast to forfeit it. There was a Miss 
I , too, a woman of fine sense, gen- 
tle and unassuming manners — do 
make, on my part, a miserable damned 
wretch's best apology to her. A Mrs. 

G , a charming woman, did me the 

honour to be prejudiced in my favour; 
this makes me hope that 1 have not 
outraged her beyond all forgiveness. 
To all the other ladies please present 
my humblest contrition for my con- 
duct, and my petition for their gra- 
cious pardon. all ye powers of de- 
cency and decorum ! whisper to them 
that my errors, though great, were in- 
voluntary — that an intoxicated man is 
the vilest of beasts — that it was not in 
my nature to be brutal to any one — 
that to be rude to a woman, when in 
my senses, was impossible with me — 
but— 



Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three 
hell-hounds that ever dog my steps 
and bay at my heels, spare me ! spare 
me ! 

Forgive the offences, and pity the 
perdition of, madam, your humble 
slave, R. B. 



No. CCLXVIII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

Dumfries, 1795. 
Mr. Burns' compliments to Mrs. 
Eiddel — is much obliged to her for 
tier polite attention in sending him the 
book. Owing to Mr. B. being at present 
acting as supervisor of Excise, a de- 

{^artment that occupies his every 
lour of the day, he has not that time 
to spare which is necessary for any 
belles-lettres pursuit; but, as he will, 
in a week or two, again return to his 
wonted leisure, he will then pay that 
attention to Mrs. R.'s beautiful song, 
"To thee, loved Nith" — which it so 
well deserves.* When " Anacharsis' 



* In the song alluded to, there are some 
fine verses. 
*' And now your banks and bonnie braes 

But waken sad remembrance' smart: 



Travels " come to hand, which Mrs. 
Riddel mentioned as her gi ft to the pub- 
lic library, Mr. B. will feel honoured 
by the indulgence of a perusal of them 
before presentation ; it is a book he has 
never yet seen, and the regulations of 
the library allow too little leisure for 
deliberate reading. 

Friday Evening. 
P. S. — Mr. Burns will be much 
obliged to Mrs. Riddel if she will 
favour him with a perusal of any of 
her poetical pieces which he may not 
have seen. 



No. CCLXIX. 
TO MISS FONTENELLE. 

Dumfries, 1795. 

Madam, — In such a bad world as 
ours, those who add to the scanty sum 
of our pleasures are positively our ben- 
efactors. To you, madam, on our 
humble Dumfries boards, I have been 
more indebted for entertainment than 
ever I was in prouder theatres. Your 
charms as a woman would insure ap- 
plause to the most indifferent actress, 
and your theatrical talents would in- 
sure admiration to the plainest figure. 
This, madam, is not the unmeaning or 
insiduous compliment of the frivolous 
or interested; I pay it from the same 
honest impulse that the sublime of 
nature excites my admiration, or her 
beauties give me delight. 

Will the foregoing lines* be of any 
service to you in your approaching 
benefit night ? If they will I shall be 

The very shades I held most dear 
Now strike fresh anguish to my heart: 

Deserted bower ! where are they now ? 
Ah ! where the garlands that I wove 

With faithful care.— each morn to deck 
The altars of ungrateful love ? 

" The flowers of spring how gay they bloom'd 

When last with him I wander'd here, 
The flowers of spring are past away 

For wintry horrors dark and drear. 
Yon osier'd stream, by whose lone banks 

My songs have lull'd him oft to rest. 
Is now in icy fetters lock'd— 

Cold as my false love's frozen breast." 

* See "Address spoken by Miss Fontenelle," 
p. 147. J 



(JEI^aRAL COliRESl^ONDENCE. 



603 



prouder of my fnuse than ever. They 
are nearly extempore: I know they 
have no great merit; but though they 
should add but little to the entertain- 
ment of the evening, they give me the 
happiness of an opportunity to declare 
how much I have the honour to be, 
&c.. B. B. 



No. CCLXX. 
TO, MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dec. IS, 1795. 

My dear Friend, — As I am in 
a complete Decemberish humour, 
gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the 
deity of dulness herself could wish, I 
shall not drawl out a heavy letter with 
a number of heavier apologies for my 
late silence. Only one I shall mention, 
because I know you will sympathise m 
it: these four months a sweet little 
girl, my youngest child, has been so 
ill that every day, a week, or less, 
threatened to terminate her existence. 
There had much need be many pleas- 
ures annexed to the states of husband 
and father, for, God knows, they have 
many peculiar cares. I cannot de- 
scribe to you the anxious, sleepless 
hours these ties frequently give me. 
I see a train of helpless little folks: 
me and my exertions all their stay: 
and on wha,t a brittle thread does the 
life of man hang ! If I am nipt off at 
the command of fate ! even in all the 
vigour of manhood as 1 am — such 
things happen every day — Gracious 
God ! what would become of my little 
flock ! 'Tis here that 1 envy your peo- 
ple of fortune. — A father on his death- 
bed, taking an everlasting leave of his 
children, has indeed woe enough; but 
the man of competent fortune leaves 
his sons and daughters independency 
and friends; while I — but I shall run 
distracted if I think any longer on the 
subject. 

To leave talking of the matter so 
gravely, I shall sing with the old Scots 
ballad— 

" O that I had ne'er been married, 
I would never had nae care ; 



Now I've gotten wife and bairns, 
They cry crowd ie evermair. 

'■'■ Crowd ie ance : crowd ie twice ; 

Crowdie three times in a day ; 
An ye crowdie ony mair, 

Ye '11 crowdie a' my meal away." 



December 24. 
We have had a brilliant theatre here 
this season; only, as all other business 
does, it experienced a stagnation of 
trade from the epidemical complaint 
of the country, want of casli, I men- 
tioned our theatre merely to lug in an 
occasional Address which I wrote for 
the benefit-night of one of the ac- 
tresses, and which is as follows — 
(See p. 147.) 

25th, Christmas Morning. 
This,, my much-loved friend, is a 
morning of wishes; accept mine — so 
Heaven hear me as they are sincere 1 
— that blessings may attend your steps, 
and affliction know you not ! In the 
charming words of my favourite 
author, " The Man of Feeling," "May 
the great Spirit bear up the weight of 
thy gray hairs, and blunt the arrow 
that brings them rest !" 

Now that I talk of authors, how do 
you like Cowper ? Is not the ' ' Task'' 
a glorious poem ? The religion of the 
"Task," bating a few scraps of Cal- 
vinistic divinity, is the religion of 
God and nature; the religion that ex- 
alts, that ennobles man. Were not 
you to send me your " Zeluco," in re- 
turn for mine ? Tell me how you like 
my marks and notes through the 
book. I would not give a farthing for 
a book, unless I were at liberty to 
blot it with my criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a friend's 
perusal, all my letters ; I mean those 
which I first sketched, in a rough 
draught, and afterwards wrote out 
fair. On looking over some old musty 
papers, which, from time to time, I 
had parcelled by, as trash that were 
scarce worth preseaving, and which 
yet at the same time 1 did not care to 
destroy; I discovered many of these 
rude sketches, and have written, and 
am writing them out, in a bound MS. 
for my friend's library. As I wrotQ 



504 



BtTTvNS' WOn^S. 



always to you tlie rhapsody of the mo- 
ment, I cannot find a single scroll to 
you, except one, about the commence- 
ment of our acquaintance. If there 
were any possible conveyance, I 
would send you a perusal of my 
book. 

R. B. 



No. CCLXXI. 

TO MR. ALEXANDER FIND- 
LATER, SUPERVISOR OF 
EXCISE, DUMFRIES. 

Sir, — Enclosed are the two schemes. 
I would not have troubled you with the 
collector's one, but for suspicion lest it 
be not right. Mr. Erskine promised 
me to make it right, if you will have 
the goodness to show him how. As I 
have no copy of the scheme for my- 
s? f, and the alterations being very 
considerable from what it was for- 
merly, I hope that I shall have access 
to tliis scheme I send you, when I 
come to face up my new books. So 
much for schemes. — And that no 
scheme to betray a friend, or mis- 
lead a STRANGER; to seduce a YOUNG 
GIRL, or rob aiiEN-ROOST; to subvert 
LIBERTY, or bribe an exciseman; to 
disturb the general assembly, or 
annoy a gossiping; to overthrow the 
credit of orthodoxy, or the authority 
of old songs; to oppose your wishes, 
or frustrate my hopes — may prosper 
•"-is the sincere wish and prayer of 

R. B. 



No. CCLXXII. 

TO THE EDITOR OF THE 
MORNING CHRONICLE.* 

Dumfries, 1795. 

Sir, — You will see by your sub- 
scribers' list that I have been about 
nine months of that number. 

I am sorry to inform you that in 
that time seven or eight of your 
papers either have never been sent 

* James Perry, a native of Aberdeen. 



me, or else have never reached me. 
To be deprived of any one number of 
the first newspaper in Great Britain 
for information, ability, and independ- 
ence, is what I can ill brook and bear; 
but to be deprived of that most admi- 
rable oration of the Marquis of Lans- 
downe, when he made the great, 
though ineffectual attempt (in the lan- 
guage of the poet, I fear too true) *'* to 
save a sinking state" — this was a 
loss that I neither can nor will for- 
give you. — That paper, sir, never 
reached me; but I demand it of you. 
I am a Briton ; and must be interested 
in the cause of liberty, — I am a man; 
and the rights op human nature 
cannot be indifferent to me. However, 
do not let me mislead you: I am not a 
man in that situation of life which, as 
your subscriber, can be of any conse- 
quence to you, in the eyes of those to 
whom SITUATION OP life alone is 
the criterion of man. — I am but a 
plain tradesman, in this distant, ob- 
scure country town: but that humble 
domicile in which I shelter my wife 
and children is the Castellum of a 
Briton; and that scanty, hard-earned 
income which supports them is as 
truly my property as the most mag- 
nificent fortune of the most puissant 
member of your house op nobles. 

These, sir, are my sentiments; and 
to them I subscribe my name: and, 
were I a man of ability and conse- 
quence enough to address the public, 
with that name should they appear.—. 
I am, &c.* 

*"This letter," says Cromek, "owes its 
origin to the following circumstance : — A 
neighbour of the poet at Dumfries, called on 
him and complained that he had been greatly 
disappointed in the irregular delivery of the 
MorniJig Chronicle. Burns asked, 'Why do 
not you write to the editors of the paper?" 
' Good God, sir, can / presume to write to the 
learned editors of a newspaper?' 'Well, if 
you are afraid of writing to the editors of a 
newspaper, / am not ; and, if you think pro. 
per, I'll draw up a sketch of a letter which you 
may copy.' 

" Burns tore a leaf from his excise book, 
and instantly produced the sketch which I 
have transcribed, and which is here printed. 
The poor man thanked him, and took the 
letter home. However, that caution which 
the watchfulness of his enemies had taught 
him to exercise prompted him to the prudenc< 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



505 



No. CCLXXIII. 

TO COLONEL W. DUNBAR.* 

I AM not gone to Elysium, most no- 
ble Colonel, but am still here in this 
sublunary world, serving my God by 
propagating liis image, and honouring 
my king by begetting him loyal sub- 
jects. Many happy returns of the sea- 
son await my friend ! May the thorns 
of care never beset his path ! May 
peace be an inmate of his bosom, and 
rapture a frequent visitor of his soul ! 
May the bloodhounds of misfortune 
never trace his steps, nor the screech- 
owl of sorrow alarm his dwelling ! 
May enjoyment tell thy hours, and 
pleasure number thy days, thou 
friend of the Bard ! Blessed be he 
that blesseth thee, and cursed be he 
that curseth thee ! 

R. B. 



No. CCLXXIV. 
TO MR. HERON, OF HERON. 

Dumfries, 1795. 

Sm, — I enclose you some copies of 
a couple of political ballads; one of 
which, I believe, you have never seen.f 
Would to Heaven I could malce you 
master of as many votes in the Stew- 
artry — but — . 

" Who does the utmost that he can, 
Does well, acts nobly— angels could no more." 

In order to bring my humble efforts 
to bear with more efEect on the foe, I 
have privately printed a good many 
copies of both ballads, and have sent 
them among friends all about the 
country. 

To pillory on Parnassus the rank 

of begging a friend 10 wait on the person for 
whom it was written, and request the favour 
to have it returned. This request was com- 
plied with, and the paper never appeared in 
print." 

* William Dunbar was an Edinburgh friend 
of the poet's; and the title of Colonel here 
given refers to his position in " the Croch- 
allan Fencibles," a club of choice spirtf , 

t For these ballads which related to Mr. 
Heron's contest for the representation of the 
glewvtry of Kirkcudbright, se? p. 279. 



reprobation of character, the utter de- 
reliction of all principle, in a profligate 
junto which has not only outraged 
virtue, but violated common decency; 
which, spurning even hypocrisy as 
paltry iniquity below their daring: — 
to unmask their flagitiousness to the 
broadest day — to deliver such over to 
their merited fate — is surely not mere- 
ly innocent, but laudable; is not only 
propriety, but virtue. You have al- 
ready, as your auxiliary, the sober 
detestation of mankind on the heads of 
your opponents; and I swear by the 
lyre of Thalia to muster on your side 
all the votaries of honest laughter, and 
fair, candid ridicule ! 

I am extremely obliged to you for 
your kind mention of my interests in 
a letter which Mr. Syme showed me. 
At present, my situation in life must 
be in a great measure stationary, at 
least for two or three years. The 
statement is this — I am on the super- 
visor's list; and, as we come on there 
by precedency, in two or three years I 
shall be at the head of that list, and 
be appointed of course. I'/iew a friend 
might be of service to me in getting me 
into a place of the kingdom which I 
would like. A supervisor's income va- 
ries from about a hundred and twenty to 
two hundred a year; but the business 
is an incessant drudgery, and would 
be nearly a complete bar to every 
species of literary pursuit. The mo- 
ment I am appointed supervisor, in 
the common routine, I may be nomi- 
nated on the collector's list; and this 
is always a business purely of political 
patronage, A collectorship varies 
much, from better than two hundred a 
a year, to near a thousand. They also 
come forward by precedency on the 
list; and have, besides a handsome 
income, a life of complete leisure. A 
life of literary leisure, with a decent 
competency, is the summit of my 
wishes. It would be the prudish af- 
fectation of silly pride in me to say 
that I do not need, or would not be 
indebted to, a political friend; at the 
same time, sir, I by no means lay my 
affairs before you thus to hook my de- 
pendent situation on jrour beueyol^ac^ 



506 



BURNS' WORKS. 



If, in my progress of life, an opening 
should occur where the good offices of 
a gentleman of your public character 
and political consequence might bring 
me forward, I shall petition your good- 
ness with the same frankness as I now 
do myself the honour to subscribe 

"^^"'''^ R. B. 



No. CCLXXV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP, IN LONDON. 

Dumfries, Dec. 20, 1795. 

I HAVE been prodigiously disappoint- 
ed in this London journey of yours. In 
the first place, when your last to me 
reached Dumfries, I was in the 
country, and did not return until too 
late to answer your letter; in the next 
place, I thought you would certainly 
take this route; and now I know not 
what is become of you, or whether this 
may reach you at all. — God grant that 
this may find you and yours in pros- 
pering health and good spirits ! Do 
let me hear from you the soonest pos- 
sible. 

As I hope to get a frank from my 
friend. Captain Miller, I shall every 
leisure hour take up the pen, and gos- 
sip away whatever comes first, prose 
or poetry, sermon or song. — In this 
last article I have abounded of late. I 
have often mentioned to you a superb 
publication of Scottish songs, which is 
making its appearance in your great 
metropolis, and where I have the hon- 
our to preside over the Scottish verse, 
as no less a personage than Peter Pin- 
dar does over the English. 

Dec. 29. 

Since I began this letter, I have 
been appointed to act in the capacity 
of supervisor here, and I assure you, 
what with the load of business, and 
what with that business being new to 
me, I could scarcely have commanded 
ten minutes to have spoken to you, 
had you been in town, much less to 
have written you an epistle. This ap- 
pointment is only temporary, and 
4urin^ tbe iUs^SS of the preseftt in- 



cumbent; but I look forward to an 
early period when I shall be appointed 
in full form: a consummation devout- 
ly to be wished ! My political sins 
seem to be forgiven me. 

This is the season (New-year's-day is 
now my date) of wishing; and mine 
are most fervently offered up for you ! 
May life to you be a positive blessing 
while it lasts, for your own sake, and 
that it may yet be greatly prolonged is 
my wish for my own sake, and for the 
sake of the rest of your friends ! What 
a transient business is life ! Very late- 
ly I was a boy; but t'other day I was a 
young man ; and already I begin to 
feel the rigid fibre and stiffening 
joints of old age coming fast o'er my 
frame. With all my follies of youth, 
and, I fear, a few vices of manhood, 
still I congratulate myself on having 
had in early days religion strongly 
impressed on my mind. I have noth- 
ing to say to any one as to which sect 
he belongs to, or what creed he be- 
lieves; but I look on the man who is 
firmly persuaded of infinite wisdom 
and goodness, superintending and di- 
recting every Circumstance that can 
happen in his lot — I felicitate such a 
man as having a solid foundation for 
his mental enjoyment; a firm prop and 
sure stay in the hour of difficulty, 
trouble, and distress; and a never-fail- 
ing anchor of hope, when he looks be- 
yond the grave. 

Jan. 12. 

You will have seen our worthy and 
ingenious friend, the Doctor, long ere 
this. I hope he is well, and beg to be 
remembered to him. I have just been 
reading over again, I daresay for the 
hundred and fiftieth time, his "View 
of Society and Manners;" and still I 
read it with delight. His humour is 
perfectly original — it is neither the 
humour of Addison, nor Swift, nor 
Sterne, nor of anybody but Dr. Moore. 
— By the by, you have deprived me of 
"Zeluco;" remember that, when you 
are disposed to rake up the sins of my 
neglect from among the ashes of my 
laziness. 

lie }ias pai4 me a pretty compU- 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



501 



ment, by quoting me in his last publi- 
cation.* R. B, 



No. CCLXXVI. 

ADDRESS OF THE SCOTCH 

DISTILLERS 

TO THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT. 

Sir, — While pursy burgesses crowd 
your gate, sweating under the weight 
of heavy addresses, permit us, the 
quondam distillers in that part of 
Great Britain called Scotland, to ap- 
proach you, not with venal approba- 
tion, but with fraternal condolence; 
not as what you are just now, or 
for some time have been; but as 
what in all probability, you will 
shortly be. — We shall have the merit 
of not deserting our friends in the day 
of their calamity, and you will have 
the satisfaction of perusing at least 
one honest address. You are well ac- 
quainted with the dissection of human 
nature; nor do you need the assistance 
of a fellow-creature's bosom to inform 
you that man is always a selfish, often 
a perfidious being. — This assertion, 
however the hasty conclusions of 
superficial observation may doubt of 
it, or the raw inexperience of youth 
may deny it, those .who make the fatal 
experiment we have done will feel. — 
You are a statesman, and consequently 
are not ignorant of the traffic of tlifese 
corporation compliments. — The little 
great man who drives the borough to 
market, and the very great man who 
buys the borough in that market, they 
two do the whole business: and, you 
well know; they, likewise, have their 
price. With that sullen disdain 
which you can so well assume, rise, 
illustrious sir, and spurn these hire- 
ling efforts of venal stupidity. At 
best they are tlie compliments of a 
man's friends on the morning of his 
execution: they take a decent fare- 
well; resign you to your fate: and 
hurry away from your approaching 
hour. 

* The novel entitled " Edward." 



If fame say true, and omens be not 
very much mistaken, you are about to 
make your exit from that world where 
the sun of gladness gilds the paths o| 
prosperous men; permit us, great sir, 
with the sympathy of fellow-feeling, 
to hail your passage to the realms oi 
ruin. 

Whether the sentiment proceed 
from the selfishness or cowardice of 
mankind is immaterial ; but to point 
out to a child of misfortune those who 
are still more unhappy is to give him 
some degree of positive enjoyment. 
In this light, sir, our downfall may be 
again useful to you: — Though not ex- 
actly in the same way, it is not per- 
haps the first time it has gratified your 
feelings. It is true, the triumph of 
your evil star is exceedingly despite- 
ful. — At an age when others are the 
votaries of pleasure, or underlings in 
business, you had attained the highest 
wish of a British statesman; and with 
the ordinary date of human life, what 
a prospect was before you ! Deeply 
rooted in Royal Favour, you over- 
shadowed the land. , The birds of pas- 
sage, which follow ministerial sun- 
shine through every clime of political 
faith and manners, flocked to your 
branches; and the beasts of the field 
(the lordly possessors of hills and val- 
leys,) crowded under your shade. 
"But behold a watcher, a holy One, 
came down from heaven, and cried 
aloud, and said thus: Hew down the 
tree, and cut off his branches; shake 
off his leaves, and scatter his fruit; 
let the beasts get away from under it, . 
and the fowls from his branches 1" 
A blow from an unthought of quarter, 
one of those terrible accidents which 
peculiarly mark the hand of Omnipo- 
tence, overset your career, and laid all 
your fancied honours in the dust. 
But turn your eyes, sir, to the tragic 
scenes of our fate. — An ancient nation 
that for many ages had gallantly main- 
tained the unequal struggle for inde- 
pendence with her much more power- 
ful neighbour, at last agrees to an 
union which should ever after make 
them one people. In consideration of 
certain circumstances, it was covenant* 



508 



BtJRNS' WORKS. 



ed that the former should enjoy a 
stipulated alleviation in her share of 
the public burdens, particularly in 
that branch of the revenue called the 
Excise. This just privilege has of 
late given great umbrage to some in- 
terested, powerful individuals of the 
more potent part of the empire, and 
they have spared no wicked pains, 
under insidious pretexts, to subvert 
what they dared not openly to attack, 
from the dread which they yet enter 
tained of the spirit of their ancient 
enemies. 

In this conspiracy we fell; nor did 
we alone suffer — our country was 
deeply wounded. A number of (we 
will say) respectable individuals, 
largely engaged in trade, where we 
were not only useful, but absolutely 
necessary, to our country in her dear- 
est interests; we, with all that was 
near and dear to us, were sacrificed 
without remorse, to the infernal deity 
of political expediency ! We fell to 
gratify the wishes of dark envy, and 
the views of unprincipled ambition. 
Your foes, sir, Avere avowed; were too 
brave to take an ungenerous advan- 
zage; you fell in the face of day. — On 
the contrary, our enemies, to complete 
our overthrow, contrived to make 
their guilt appear the villainy of a na- 
tion. Your downfall only drags with 
you your private friends and partisans: 
in our misery are more or less involved 
the most numerous and most valuable 
part of the community — all those who 
immediately depend on the cultivation 
,of the soil, from the landlord of a prov- 
ince down to his lowest hind. 

Allow us, sir, yet further, just 
to hint at another rich vein of 
comfort in the dreary regions of ad- 
versity; the gratulations of an ap- 
proving conscience. — In a certain great 
assembly, of which you are a distin- 
guished member, panegyrics on pri- 
vate virtues have so often wounded 
your delicacy that we shall not dis- 
tress you with anything on the sub- 
ject. There is, however, one part of 
your public conduct which our feel- 
ings will not permit us to pass in 
silence; our gratitude must trespass on 



your modesty; we mean, worthy sir, 
your whole behaviour to the Scots Dis- 
tillers. — In evil hours, when obtrusive 
recollection presses bitterly on the 
sense, let that, sir, come like a healing 
angel, and speak the peace to your 
soul which the world can neither give 
nor take away. — We have the honour 
to be, sir, your sympathising fellow- 
sufferers, and grateful humble ser- 
vants. 

John Barleycorn- 



No. CCLXXVII. 

TO THE HON. THE PROVOST, 
BAILIES, AND TOWN COUNCIL 
OF DUMFRIES. 

Gentlemen, — The literary taste and 
liberal spirit of your good town has so 
ably filled tlie various departments of 
your schools as to make it a very great 
object for a parent to have his children 
educated in them. Still to me, a 
stranger, with my large family, and 
very stinted income, to give my young 
ones that education I wish, at the high 
school fees which a stranger pays, will 
bear hard upon me. 

Some years ago your good town did 
me the honour of making me an hon- 
orary Burgess. — Will you allow me to 
request that this mark of distinction 
may extend so far as to put me on a 
footing of a real freeman of the town, 
in the schools ? 

If you are so very kind as to grant 
my request, it will certainly be a con- 
stant incentive to me to strain every 
nerve where T can officially serve you; 
and will, if possible, increase that 
grateful respect with which I have the 
honour to be, gentlemen, your devoted 
humble servant, 

R. B.f 

* This ironical address was found among 
the papers of the poet. 

+ The Provost and Bailies complied at oncf 
with the humble request of the poet. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



509 



No. CCLXXVIII. 
TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

Dumfries, Jan. 20, 1796. 

I CANNOT express my gratitude to 
you for allowing lue a longer perusal 
of " Anarcharsis. " In fact, I never 
met with a book that bewitched me so 
much; and I, as a member of the 
library, must warmly feel the obliga- 
tion you have laid us under. Indeed, 
to me, the obligation is stronger than 
to any other individual of our society, 
as ** Anarcharsis " is an indispensable 
desideratum to a son of the muses. 

The health you wished me in your 
morning's card is, I think, flown from 
me for ever. I have not been able to 
leave my bed to-day till about an hour 
ago. These wickedly unlucky adver- 
tisements I lent (I did wrong) to a 
friend, and I am ill able to go in quest 
of him. 

The muses have not quite forsaken 
me. The following detached stanzas 
I intend to interweave in some disas- 
trous tale of a shepherd. 

R. B. 



No. CCLXXIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, Jan. 31, 1796. 

These many months you have been 
two packets in my debt — what sin of 
ignorance I have committed against so 
highly valued a friend I am utterly at 
a loss to guess. Alas ! madam, ill can 
I afford, at this time, to be deprived 
of any of the small remnant of my 
pleasures. I have lately drunk deep of 
the cup of affliction. The autumn 
robbed me of my only daughter and 
darling child, and that at a distance, 
too,* and so rapidly, as to put it out of 
my power to pay the last duties to her. 
I had scarcely begun to recover from 
that shock when I became myself the 
victim of a most severe rheumatic 
fever, and long the die spun doubtful ; 
until, after many weeks of a sick bed, 
It seems to have turned up life, and I 



* The child died at Mauchline. 



am l^ginning to crawl across my room, 
and once indeed have been before my 
own door in the street. 

" When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 

Affliction purifies the visual ray. 
Religion hails the drear, the untried night. 
And shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful 
day." 

R. B. 



No. CCLXXX. 
TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

WHO HAD DESIRED HIM TO GO TO THE BIRTH- 
DAY ASSEMBLY ON THAT DAY TO SHOW HIS 
LOYALTY. 

Dumfries, June 4, 1796. 

I AM in such miserable health as to 
be utterly incapable of showing my 
loyalty in any way. Rackt as I am 
with rheumatisms, I meet every face 
with a greeting, like that of Balak to 
Balaam — "Come, curse me, Jacob; 
and come, defy me, Israel !" So say I 
— Come, curse me that east wind; and 
come, defy me the north ! Would you 
have me in such circumstances copy 
you out a love -song ? 

I may perhaps see you on Saturday, 
but I will not be at the ball — Why 
should I? "man delights not me, nor 
woman either !" Can you supply me 
with the song, " Let us all be unhap- 
py together ?" — do if you can, and 
aiilige le pauvre miserable.'^ 

R. B. 



* Mr. Cunningham says :— '' This is the last 
letter which Burns addressed to the beautiful 
and accomplished Mrs. Riddel. In addition 
to the composition of a very admirable memoir 
of the poet, that lady bestirred herself much 
in rousing his friends both in Scotland and 
England to raise a monument at Dumfries to 
his memory. She subscribed largely herself : 
she induced others to do the same, and she 
corresponded with both Banks and Flaxman 
on the subject of designs. The following 
letter will suffice to show the reader that Mrs. 
Riddel had forgiven the bard for all his lam- 
poons, and was earnest in doing his memory 
honour: " — 

Richmond, May 20, 1799. 
Sir— In answer to yours of the 10th of last 
month, I will trouble you with a few lines on 
the subject of the bard's monument, having 
corresponded with several persons (Dr. 
Currie, &c.) respecting it, whose judgment is 
very far preferable to mine, and we all agroQ 



tio 



BURNS' WORIvS. 



No. CCLXXXI. 

TO MR. CLARKE, SCHOOL- 
MASTER, FORFAR. 

Dumfries, June 26, 1796. 

My dear Clarke, — Still, still the 
victim of affliction ! Were you to see 
tlie emaciated figure who now holds 
the pen to you, you would not know 
your old friend. ' Whether I shall ever 
get about again, is only known to Him, 
the Great Unknown, whose creature I 
am. Alas, Clarke ! I begin to fear 
the worst. ■ As to my individual self, 
lam tranquil, and would despise my- 
self if 1 were not; but Burns' poor 
widow, and half-a-dozen of his dear 
little ones — helpless orphans ! — there 
I am weak as a woman's tear. Enough 
of this ! 'Tis half of my disease. 

I duly received your last, enclosing 
the note. It came extremely in time, 
and I am much obliged by your punc- 
tuality. Again I must request you to 
do me the same kindness. Be so very 
good as, by return of post, to enclose 
me another note. I trust you can do 
it without inconvenience, and it will 



that the first thing to be done is to collect 
what money can be got for that purpose, in 
which we will all do what service we can, as 
soon as the posthumous works are published ; 
but those who are at all saddled with that 
business must get it ofif their hands before 
they oommence another undertaking. Per- 
haps an application, or at any rate ihe cottsuli- 
/w^with Mr. Flaxman on the subject of the 
design, &c., might answer better from and 
with persons he is already acquainted with, 
and more heads than one should be called in 
counsel on the occasion. If, therefore, you or 
the other gentlemen concerned in this project 
think it proper, I will talk it over with Mr. 
Flaxman and some other artists, friends of his, 
whom I know, and Mr. F. can then let you 
know his ideas on the subject. The monu- 
ment should be characteristic of him to whom 
it is raised, and the artist must somehow be 
made acquainted with him and his works, 
which it is possible he may not be at present. 
The inscription should be /irst rate. I think 
either Roscoe or Dr. Darwin would contri- 
bute their talents for the purpose, and it 
could not be given into better hands. I have 
no names to add to your list ; but whenever 
that for the posthumous works is closed, I will 
set to work in earnest. Pray remember me to 
Mr. Syme when you see him, from whom. I 
know not why, I never hear now. — I am, sir, 
your humble servant, 

Maiua Riddel. 



seriously oblige me. If I must go, I 
shall leave a few friends behind me, 
whom I shall regret while conscious- 
ness remains. i know I shall live in 
their remembrance. Adieu, dear 
Clarke. That I shall ever see you 
again is, 1 am afraid, highly improb- 
able. 

R. B. 



No. CCLXXXII. 

TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, 
EDINBURGH. 

Dumfries, July 4, 1796. 
How are you, my dear friend, and 
how comes on )our fifth volume? 
You may probably think that for some 
time past I have neglected you and 
your work; but, alas ! the hand of 
pain, and sorrow, and care, has these 
many months lain heavy on me ! Per- 
sonal and domestic affliction have 
almost entirely banished that alacrity 
and life with which I used to woo the 
rural muse of Scotia. 



Vou are a good, worthy honest fel- 
low, and have a good right to live in 
this world — because you deserve it. 
Many a merry meeting this publica- 
tion has given us, and possibly it may 
give us more, though, alas ! 1 fear it. 
This protracting, slow, consuming ill- 
ness which hangs over me, will, I 
doubt much, my ever dear friend, ar- 
rest my sun before he has well reached 
his middle career, and will turn over 
the poet to far more important con- 
cerns than studying the brilliancy of 
wit, or the pathos of sentiment ! How. 
ever, liope is the cordial of the human 
heart, and I endeavour to cherish it as 
well as I can. 

Let me hear from you as soon as 
convenient. — Your work is a great one; 
and now that it is finished, I see, if we 
were to begin again, two or three 
things that might be mended; yet 1 
will venture to prophesy that to future 
ages your publication will be the text- 
book and standard of Scottish songan(J 
music. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDEI^CE. 



511 



I am ashamed to ask another favour 
of you, because you have been so very 
good already; but my wife has a very 
particular friend of hers, a young lady 
who sings well, to whom she wishes 
to present the Scots Musical Museum. 
If you have a spare copy, will you be 
so obliging as to send it by the very 
first jly, as I am anxious to have it 
«oon.* — Yours ever, 

R. B. 



No. CCLXXXIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow, Sea-Bathing Quarters, \ 
July 7, 1796. f 

My dear Cunningham, — I received 
yours here this moment, and am in- 
deed highly flattered with the appro- 
bation of the literary circle you men- 
tion; a literary circle inferior to none 
in the two kingdoms. Alas ! my 
friend, I fear the voice of the bard will 
soon be heard among you no more ! 
For these eight or ten moi.ths I have 
been ailing, sometimes bedfast, and 
sometimes not; but these last three 
months I have been tortured with an 
excruciating rheumatism, which has 
reduced me to nearly the last stage. 
You actually would not know me if you 
saw me. Pale, emaciated, and so feeble 
as occasionally to need help from my 
chair — my spirits fled ! fled ! — but I 
can no more on the subject — only the 
medical folks tell me that my last and 
only chance is bathing and country 
quarters and riding. — The deuce of the 
matter is this; when an Exciseman is 
off duty, his salary is reduced to £35 
instead of £50. — What way, in the 
name of thrift, shall I maintain my- 
self, and keep a horse in country 
quarters — with a wife and five children 
at home, on £35 ? I mention this, be- 
cause I had intended to beg your ut- 

* In this humble and delicate manner did 

Eoor Burns ask for a copy of a work of which 
e was principally the founder, and to which 
he had conX.r'x'tiuieA, gratis itozisiy, not less than 
184 original^ altered^ and corrected songs! 
The editor has seen 180 transcribed by his 

»©wn Uand %9X iii§ ^w^«w.— CRpweK* 



most interest, and that of all the 
friends you can muster, to move our 
Commissioners of Excise to grant me 
the full salary; 1 dare say you know 
them all personally. If they do not 
grant it me, I must lay my account 
with an exit truly en poete — If I die 
not of disease, 1 must perish with 
hunger.* 

I have sent you one of the songs; 
the other my memory does not serve 
me with, and I have no copy here; but 
I shall be at home soon, when I will 
send it you. — Apropos to being at 
home, Mrs. Burns threatens, in a week 
or two, to add one more to my paternal 
charge, which, if of the right gender, 
I intend shall be introduced to the 
world by the respectable designation 
of Alexander Cunningham Burns. My 
last was James Glencairn, so you can 
have no objection to the company of 
nobility. — Farewell. 

R.B. 



No. CCLXXXIV. 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

July 10, 1796. 

Dear Brother, — It will be no very 
pleasing news to you to be told that I 
am dangerously ill, and not likely to 
get better. An inveterate rheumatism 
has reduced me to such a state of de- 
bility, and my appetite is so totally 
gone, that I can scarcely stand on my . 
legs. I have been a week at sea-bath- 
ing, and I will continue there, or in 3. 
friend's house in the country, all tha 
summer. God keep my wife and 
children: if I am taken from their 
head, they will be poor indeed. I 
have contracted one or two serious 
debts, partly from my illness these 
many months, partly from too much 
thoughtlessness as to expense when I 
came to town, that will cut in too 



* Mr. Cunningham very properly says :— Iv 
is truly painful to mention— and with indigna- 
tion we record it— that the poet's humble 
request of the continuance of his full salary 
was not granted ! " The Commissioners," says 
Currie, " were guilty of no such weakness." 

To be merciful \va^ x\o part of \^%ix duty, 



512 



BURNS' WORKS. 



much on the little I leave them in 
your liands. Remember me to my 
mother. — Yours, 

R. B. 



No. CCLXXXV. 
TO MRS. BURNS. 

Brow,* Thursday. 

Mt dearest Love, — I delayed 
writing until I could tell you what 
effect sea-bathing was likely to pro- 
dace. It would be injustice to deny 
that it has eased my pains, and I think 
has strengthened me; but my appetite 
is still extremely bad. No flesh nor 
fish can I swallow ; porridge and milk 
are the only thing I can taste. I am 
very happy to hear, by Miss Jesse Le- 
wars, that you are all well. My very 
best and kindest compliments to her, 
and to all the children. I will see 
you on Sunday. — Your affectionate 
husband, 

R. B. 



No. CCLXXXVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Brow, Saturday, July 12, 1796. 

Madam, — - have written you so 
often, without receiving any answer, 
that I would not trouble you again, 
but for the circumstances in which I 
am. An iliiess which has long hung 
about me, in all probability will speed- 
ily send me "■ eyond that bourn whence 
no traveller returns. Your friendship, 
with which for many years you hon- 
oured me, was a friendship dearest to 
my soul. Your conversation, and es- 
pecially your correspondence, were at 
once highly entertaining and instruc- 
tive. With what pleasure did 1 use 



* One evening- during Burns' stay at the 
Brow, he was visited by two young ladies who 
lived in the neighbourhood and who sympa- 
thised in his suflfenngs. During their stay, 
the sun setting on the western hills, threw 
a strong light upon him through the Vi indow : 
& child perceived this, and proceeded to draw 
the curtain. " Let me look at the sun, my 
Jove," said the sinking poet; " it will b^ long 
before b« will sbine for me a^fain ! " 



to break up the seal I The remem- 
brance yet adds one pulse more to my 
poor palpitating^ heart. Farewell ! 1 !* 

R. B. 



No. CCLXXXVII. 

TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, 
WRITER, MONTROSE. 

Dumfries, July 13. 

My dear Cousin, — When you of- 
fered me money assistance, little did I 
think I should want it so soon. A 
rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I 
owe a considerable bill , taking it into 
his head that I am dying, has com- 
menced a process against me, and will 
infallibly put my emaciated body into 
jail. Will you be so good as to ac- 
commodate me, and that by return of 
post, with ten pounds ? James ! did 
you know the \ ide of my heart, you 
would feel doubly for me ! Alas ! I 
am not used to beg ! The worst of it 
is, my health was coming about fine- 
ly; you know, and my physician as- 
sured me, that melancholy and low 
spirits are half my disease: guess, then, 
my horrors since tnis business began. 
If 1 had it settled, I would be, 1 
think, quite well in a manner. How 
shall 1 use the language to you ? do 
not disappoint me ! but strong neces- 
sity's curst command. 

I have been thinking over and over 
my brother's affairs, and I fear I must 
cut him up; — but on this I will corres- 



* " Burns had, however, the pleasure," says 
Currie, " of receiving a satisfactory explana-4 
ti t i his friend's silence, and an assurance 
of the continuance of her friendship to his 
widow and children ; an assurance that has 
been amply fulfilled. It is probable that the 
greater part of her letters to him were 
destroyed by our bard about the time that this 
last was written. He did not foresee that his 
own letters to her were to appear in print, 
nor conceive the disappointment that will be 
felt that a few of this excellent lady's epistles 
have not served to enrich and adorn the 
collection. The above letter is supposed to 
be the last production of Robert Burns, who 
died on the 21st of the month, nine days 
afterwards." 

Thtre are, however, others of a date «tiU 
later, 



GENERAL CORRESPONDEI^CE. 



51ft 



pond at another time, particularly as I 
skall [require] your advice. 

Forgive me for once more mention- 
ing by return of post; — save me from 
the horrors of a jail ! 

My compliments to my friend James, 
and to all the rest, I do not knoAv 
what I have w^ritten. The subject is 
so horrible, I dare not look it over 
again. Fareveell.* 

R. B. 



* James Burness sent his cousin ten pounds 
the moment he received his letter, though he 
could ill spare the money, and concealed his 
kindness from the world, till, on reading- the 
life and letters of the poet, he was constrain- 
ed, in support of his own good name, to 
conceal it no longer. I was informed by 
my friend. Dr. Burness, that his grandfather 
now in his eighty-fourth year, was touched 
by the dubious way in which I had left the 
subject, in the poet's life, and felt that he was 
liable to the imputation of coldness of heart. 
In a matter of buch delicacy, I could not ask 
the family, and accordingly had left it as I 
found it, without comment or remark. The 
following letters will make all as clear as day, 
and right my venerable friend in a matter 
respecting which he cannot be but anxious. — 
Allan Cunningham. 



TO MR. BURNESS, MONTROSE. 

Sir— At the desire of Mrs. Burns, I have to 
acquaint you with the melancholy and much 
regretted event of your friend's death.' He 
expired on the morning of the 21st, about five 
o'clock. The situation of the unfortunate 
Mrs. Burns and her charming boys, your 
feeling heart can easily paint. It is, however, 
much to her consolation that a few of Jiis 
friends, particularly Mr. John Syme, collector 
of the stamps, and Dr. William Maxwell, both 
gentlemen of the first respectability and con- 
nexions, have stepped forward with their 
assistance and advice; and I think there can 
be no doubt but that a very handsome provi- 
sion will be raised for the widow and family. 
The former of these gentlemen has written to 
most of the Edinburgh professors with whom 
either he or Mr. Burns were acquainted, and 
to several other particular friends. You will 
easily excuse your not having sooner an 
answer to your very kind letter, with an 
acknowledgment of the contents, for, at the 
time it was received, Mr. Burns was totally 
unable either to write or dictate a letter, and 
Mrs. Burns wished to defer answering it till 
she saw what turn affairs took. 

I am, with much respect, your most obedi- 
ent and very humble servant, 

John Lewars. 
PUMFRips, July 2^, 1796, 



No. CCLXXXVIII. 
TO JAMES GRACIE, ESQ. 

Brow, Wednesday Morning, ) 
July 16, 1796. j 

My dear Sir, — It would [be] doing 
high injustice to this place not to ac- 
knowledge tliat my rheumatisms have 

TO MRS. ROBERT BURNS, DUMFRIES. 

My dear Cousin,— It was with much con- 
cern I received the melancholy news of the 
death of your husband. Little did I expect, 
when I had the pleasure of seeing you and 
him, that a change so sudden would have 
happened. 

I sincerely sympathise with you in your 
afiliction, and Vvill be very ready to do any- 
thing in my power to alleviate it. 

I am sensible that the education of his 
family Avas the object nearest to my cousin's 
heart, and I hope j ou v.ill make it your study 
to follow up his Vv-ish by carefully attending 
to that object, so far as may be possible for 
you ; or, if you think of parting with your soa 
Robert, and v.ill allow me to take charge 
of him, I will endeavour to discharge towards 
him the duty of a father and educate him with, 
my ov/n sons. 

I am happy to hear that something is to be 
done for you and the family : but as that may 
take some time to carry into effect, I beg you 
will accept of the enclosed five pounds to 
supply your present necessities. 

My friend mentioned to me that any little 
thing he had was in the hands of his brother 
Gilbert, and that the payment of it, at present, 
would be hard upon him ; I have therefore to 
entreat that, so far as your circumstances will 
permit, you will use lenity in settling with 
him. 

I have further to request that you will offer 
my best thanks to Mr. Lewars for his very 
friendly letter to me on this melancholy 
event, with my sincere wishes that such a 
warm heart as his may never want a friend. 

I shall be glad to hear of your welfare, and 
your resolution in regard to your son, and 
I remain, dear cousin, your affectionate 
friend, James Burness. 

Montrose, July 20, 1796. 



TO MR. BURNESS, MONTROSE. 

Dear Sir,-J was duly favoured with your 
letter of the 29th July. Your goodness is 
such as to render it wholly out of my power 
to make any suitable acknowledgment, or to 
express what I feel for so much kindness. 

With regard to my son Robert, I cannot as 
yet determine ; the gentlemen here (particu- 
larly Dr. Maxwell and Mr. Syme, who have 
so much interested themselves for me and the 
family) do not wish that I sbonldcome to any 
resolution as to parting v ith any of them, 
and I own my own feelings ra her incline me 
\o keep them with me. I think they will b^ a 



614 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 



derived great benefits from it already; 
but, alas ! my loss of appetite still 
continues. I shall not need your kind 
offer this week, and I return to town 
the beginning of next week, it not 
being a tide week. I am detaining a 
man in a burning hurry. So, God 
bless you. 

R. B. 



comfort to me, and my most agreeable com- 
panions ; but should any of them ever leave 
me, you, sir, would be, of all others, the 
gentleman under whose charge I should wish 
to see any of them, and I am perfectly sensible 
of your very obliging offer. 

Since Mr. Lewars wrote you, I have got a 
young son, who, as well as myself is doing 
well. 

What you mention about my brother, Mr. 
Gilbert Bums, is what accords with my own 
opinion, and every respect shall be paid to 
your advice — I am, dear sir, with the greatest 
respect and regard, your very much obliged 
friend, Jean Burns. 

Dumfries, Aug. 3, 1796. 



No. CCLXXXIX. 

TO JAMES ARMOUR, MASON, 
MAUCHLINE.* 

Dumfries, July 18, 1796. 

My dear Sir,— Do, for Heaven's 
sake, send Mrs. Armour here immedi- 
ately. My wife is hourly expecting 
to be put to bed. Good God ! what a^ 
situation for her to be in, poor girl,} 
without a friend ! I returned from 
sea-bathing quarters to-day, and my 
medical friends would almost pei • 
suade me that I am better, but 1 
think and feel tliat my strength is so 
gone that the disorder will prove fatal 
to me.f — Your son-in-law, 

R. B. 

* The father^ Mrs. Burns. 
t This is the last of all the compositions of 
the great poet of Scotland, being written only 
three days before his death.— Cunningham. 
1834. 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 



WITH 



GEORGE THOMSON, 



Iir 1792 George Thomson announced 
the work which was henceforward to 
associate his name with that of Robert 
Burns in the memory of his country- 
men ; he entitled it, "A Select Col- 
lection of Original Scottish Airs for 
the Voice :to which are Added Intro- 
ductory and Concluding Symphonies 
and Accompaniments for the Piano- 
forte and Violin, by Pleyel and Kose- 
luck, with Select and Characteristic 



Verses by the most Admired Scottish 
Poets." As Burns was the only poet 
of the period who could worthily assist 
him in his ambitious undertaking, he 
was immediately applied to, and he re- 
sponded to the call with the utmost 
enthusiasm. We shall allow Mr 
Thomson to speak for himself as to 
his own personal history and his con. 
nexion with the poet — the latter at 
cue tiTOQ a subject of fierce discusgiou. 



WITH GEOUGE THOMSON. 



515 



The letter we reprint was addressed to 
Mr. Robert Chambers, and first ap- 
peared in the ' * Land of Burns :"— 



"Trustees' Office Edinburgh, I 
March 29, 1838. ) 

"Dear Sir,— To your request that 
I should furnish you with a few par- 
ticulars respecting my personal history, 
I really know not well what to say, be- 
cause my life has been too unimportant 
to merit much notice. It is in con- 
nexion with national music and song, 
and my correspondence on that subie?t 
with Burns chiefly, that I can have 
any reasonable hope of being occasion- 
ally spoken of. I shall therefore con- 
tent myself with a brief sketch of 
what belongs to my personal history 
and then proceed to the subject of 
Scottish music and Burns. 

" I was born at Limekilns, in Fife 
about the year 1759, as I was inform- 
ed for I scarce can believe I am so 
old. My father taught a school there 
and havmg been invited in that capa- 
city to the town of Banff, he carried 
me thither in my very early years in- 
structed me in the elementary branches 
of knowledge, and sent me to learn the 
dead languages at what was called ;,he 
grammar school. He had a hard 
struggle to maintain an increasing- 
family, and, after trying some mer 
cantile means of onlarging his income 
witliout success, he moved with his 
family to Edinburgh when I was about 
seventeen. In a short time I got into 
a writer to the signet's office, as a 
clerk, and remained in that capacity 
with him, and another W S till 
the year 1780, when, through the 
influence of Mr. John Home, author 
of Douglas,' with one of the mem- 
bers of the Honourable Board of Trus 
tees, I was recommended to that Board 
and became their junior clerk. Not 
long after, upon the death of their 
principal clerk, I succeeded to his sit- 
uation Mr. Robert Arbuthnot beino- 
then their secretary; under whom and 
afterwards under Sir William, his son 
and successor, I have served the Board 
■ for upwards of half a century; enjoy- J 



mg their fullest confidence, and the 
entire approbation of both secretaries 
whose gentlemanly manners and kind 
dispositions were such (for I never saw 
a trown on their brows, nor heard an 
angry word escape from their lips) 
that I can say, with heartfelt gratitude 
to their memory, and to all my superi- 
ors, in this the 68th year of my clerk- 
ship, that I never have felt the word 
servitude to mean anything in the least 
mortifying or unpleasant, but quite 
the reverse. 

-.v^'^l t^e?ty-fifth year, I married 
Miss Miller, whose father was a lieu- 
tenant in the 50th Regiment, and her 
mother the daughter of a most re- 
spectable gentleman in Berwickshire 
George Peter, Esq., of Chapel, and 
tins was the wisest act of my life She 
IS happily still living, and has pr^ 
sented me with six daughters and two 
sons, the elder of the two being now 
a heutenant-colonel of Engineer?, and 
the other an assistant-commissary- 

"From my boyhood I had a passion 
for the sister arts of music and paint- 
ing, which I have ever since continued 
to cherish in the society of the ablest 
professors of both arts. Having studied 
the violin, it was my custom, after the 
hours of business, to con over oui 
Scottish melodies, and to devour the 
choruses of Handel's oratorios; in 
wliich when performed at St. Cecilia's 
Hall, I generally took a part, along 
with a few other gentlemen, Mr. Alex- 
ander Wight one of the most eminent 
counsel at the bar, Mr. Gilbert Innes 
of Stow, Mr. John Russel, W. S Mr 
John Hutton, &c. ; it being then not 
uncommon for grave amateurs to as- 
sist at the St. Cecilia concerts, one of 
the most interesting and liberal musi- 
cal institutions that ever existed in 
Scotland, or indeed in any country I 
lad so much delight in singing 
those matchless choruses, and in 

PW^T5 w^'^ ^''f''' quartettos of 
P e>_el and Haydn that it was with joy 
I hailed the hour when, like the young 
amateur m the good old Scotch song 1 
could hie me hame to my Cremona 
and enjoy Haydn's admirable Set 



516 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BtTRNS 



'I still was pleased where'er I went; and 

when I was alone, 
I screw'd my pegs and pleased myself with 

John o' Badenyon.' 

"At the St. Cecilia concerts I heard 
Scottish songs sung in a style of ex- 
cellence far surpassing any idea which 
I had previously had of their beauty, 
and that, too, from Italians, Signor 
Tenducci the one, and Signora Dome- 
nica Corri the other. Tenducci's 'I'll 
never leave thee,' and ' Braes o' Bal- 
lenden,' and the Signora's 'Ewebughts, 
Marion,' and ' Waly, waly,' so delight- 
ed every hearer, that in the most 
crowded room not a whisper was to be 
heard, so entirely did they rivet the at- 
tention and admiration of the audience. 
Tenducci's singing was full of passion, 
feeling, and taste: and, what we hear 
very rarely from singers, his articula- 
tion of the words was no less perfect 
than his expression of the music. It 
was in consequence of my hearing 
him and Signora Corri sing a number 
of our songs so charmingly, that I 
conceived the idea of collecting all our 
best melodies and songs, and of obtain- 
ing accompaniments to them worthy 
of their merit. 

•'On examining with great atten- 
tion the various collections on which I 
could by any means lay my hands, I 
found them all more or less exception- 
able, a sad mixture of good and evil, 
the pure and the impure. The mel- 
odies in general were without any 
symphonies to introduce and conclude 
them; and the accompaniments (for 
the piano only) meagre and common- 
place: — while the verses united with 
the melodies were in a great many in- 
stances coarse and vulgar, the produc- 
tions of a rude age, and such as could 
not be tolerated or sung in good so- 
ciety. 

"Many copies of the same melody 
both in print and manuscript, differ- 
ing more or less from each other, came 
under my view: and after a minute 
comparison of copies, and hearing 
them sung over and over by such of 
my fair friends as I knew to be most 
conversant with them, I chose that set 
or copy of each air which I found the 
most simple and beautiful. 



" For obtaining accompaniments to 
the airs, and also symphonies to intro- 
duce and conclude each air — a most in- 
teresting appendage to the airs that 
had not before graced any of the col- 
lections — I turned my eyes first on 
Pleyel, whose compositions were re- 
markably popular and pleasing; and 
afterwards, when I had resolved to ex- 
tend my work into a complete collec- 
tion of all the airs that were worthy of 
preservation, I divided them into diff- 
erent portions, and sent them from 
time to time to Hadyn, to Beethoven, 
to Weber, Hummell, &c., the greatest 
musicians then flourishing in Europe. 
These artists, to my inexpressible sat- 
isfaction, proceeded can amove with 
their respective portions of the work, 
and in the symphonies, which are orig- 
inal and characteristic creations of their 
own, as well as in their judicious and 
delicate accompaniments for the piano- 
forte, and for the violin, flute and violon. 
cello, they exceeded my most sanguine 
expectations, and obtained the decided 
approval of the best judges. Theii 
compositions have been pronounced by 
the Edinburgh Revieio to be wholly 
unrivalled for originality and beauty. 

' * The poetry became next the sub- 
ject of my anxious consideration, and 
engaged me in a far more extensive 
correspondence than I had ever anti- 
cipated, which occupied nearly the 
whole of my leisure for many years. 
For, although a small portion of the 
melodies had long been united with 
excellent songs, yet a much greater 
number stood matched with such un- 
worthy associates as to render a 
divorce and a new union absolutely 
necessary. 

"Fortunately for the melodies, I 
turned my eyes towards Robert Burns, 
who no sooner was informed of my 
plan and wishes, than, with all the 
frankness, generosity, and enthusiasm 
which marked his character, he under- 
took to write whatever songs I wanted 
for my work; but in answer to my 
promise of remuneration, he declared, 
in the most emphatic terms, that ho 
would receive nothing of the kind. Ho 
proceeded with the utmost alacrity to 



WITH OEORGE THOMSON. 



517 



execute what he had undertaken, and 
from the year 1792 till the time of his 
death in 1796, I continued to receive 
his exquisitely-beautiful compositions 
for the melodies I had sent him from 
time to time: and, in order that noth- 
ing should be wanting which might 
suit my work, he empowered me to 
make use of all the other songs that 
he had written for Johnson's Scots 
Musical Museum, &c. My work thus 
contains above one hundred and twenty 
of his inimitable songs ; besides many 
of uncommon beauty that I obtained 
from Thomas Campbell, Professor 
Smyth, Sir Walter Scott, Joanna Bail- 
lie, and other admired poets: together 
with the best songs of the olden time. 
" Upon my publishing the first 
twenty-five melodies with Pieyel's 
sjonphonies and accompaniments, and 
songs by different authors, six of 
Burns' songs being of the number, 
(and those six were all I published in 
his lifetime,) I, of course, sent a copy 
of this half volume to the poet; and as 
a mark of my gratitude for "his exces- 
sive kindness, I ventured, with all 
possible delicacy, to send him a small 
pecuniary present, notwithstanding 
what he had said on the subject. He 
retained it after much hesitation, but 
wrote me (Letter XXIV.) that, if I 
presumed to repeat it, he would, on 
the least motion of it, indignantly 
spurn what was past, and commence 
entire stranger to me. 

*' Who that reads the letter above 
referred to, and the first one which the 
poet sent me, can think I have deserv- 
ed the abuse which anonymous scrib- 
blers have poured upon me for not en- 
deavouring to remunerate the poet? 
If I had dared to go further than I did, 
in sending him money, is it not per- 
fectly clear that he would have deem- 
ed it an insult, and ceased to write 
another song for me? 

" Had I been a selfish or avaricious 
man, I had a fair opportunity, upon 
the death of the poet, to put money 
in my pocket; for I might then have 
published, for my own behoof, all the 
beautiful lyrics he had written for me, 
the original manuscripts of which 



were in my possession. But instead 
of doing this, I was no sooner inform- 
ed that the friends of the poet's family 
had come to a resolution to collect his 
works, and to publish them for the 
benefit of the family, and that they 
thought it of importance to include my 
MSS., as being likely, from their 
number, their novelty, and beauty, to 
prove an attraction to subscribers, than 
I felt it at once my duty to put them 
in possession of all the songs and of 
the correspondence between the poet 
and myself, and accordingly, through 
Mr. John Syme of Ryedale, I transmit- 
ted the whole to Dr! Currie, who had 
been prevailed on, immensely for the 
advantage of Mrs. Burns and her chil- 
dren, to take on himself the task of 
editor. 

"For thus -surrendering the manu- 
scripts, I received both verbally and 
in writing, the warm thanks of the 
trustees for the family, Mr. John 
Syme and Mr. Gilbert Burns; who 
considered what I had done as a fair 
return for the poet's generosity of con- 
duct to me. 

" If anything more were wanting to 
set me right, with respect to the 
anonymous calumnies circulated to my 
prejudice in regard to the poet, I have 
it in my power to refer to a most re- 
spectable testimonial which, to my 
very agreeable surprise, was sent me 
by Professor Josiah Walker, one of 
the poet's biographers: and, had I not 
been reluctant to obtrude myself on 
the public, I should long since have 
given it publicity. The professor 
wrote me as follows : — 

'' ' Perth, April 14, 181 1. 

" * Deak Sm,— Before I left Edin 
burgh, I sent a copy of my account of 
Burns to Lord Woodhouselee; and 
since my return I have had a letter 
from his lordship, which among other 
passages, contains one that I cannot 
withhold from you ! He writes thus*. 
— " I am glad that you have embraced 
the occasion which lay in your way of 
doing full justice to Mr. George Thom- 
son, who, I agree with you in think- 
ing, was most harshly and illiberally 
treated by ..a anonymous dull caluia* 



618 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 



niator. I have always regarded Mr. 
Thomson as a man of great wortli and 
most respectable character: andl have 
every reason to believe that poor Burns 
felt himself as much indebted to his 
good counsels and active friendship as 
a man as the public is sensible he was 
to his good taste and judgment as a 
critic !" 

" ' Of the unbiassed opinion of such 
a highly respectable gentleman and 
accomplished scholar as Lord Wood- 
houselee, I certainly feel not a little 
proud: it is of itself more than suffi- 
cient to silence the calumnies by which 
I have been assailed, first, anonymous- 
ly, and afterwards, to my great sur- 
prise, by some writers who might have 
been expected to possess sufficient 
judgment to see the matter in its true 
light. G. T.'" 

"To this letter of my excellent 
friend Mr, Thomson," says Chambers, 
" little can be added. His work, the 
labour of his lifetime, has long been 
held the classical depository of Scot- 
tish memory and song, and is 
extensively known. His own char- 
acter, in the city where he has 
spent so many years, has ever stood 
high. It was scarcely necessary that 
Mr. Thomson should enter into a de- 
fence of himself against the inconsid- 
erate charges which have been brought 
against him. 

' ' Wlien Burns refused remunera- 
tion from one whom he knew to be, 
like himself, of the generation of 
Apollo, rather than of Plutus, and 
while his musical friend was only en- 
tering upon a task, the results of 
which no one could tell, how can Mr 
Thomson be fairly blamed ? 

" If a moderate success ultimately 
crowned his enterprise and toil — and 
the success has probably been much 
more moderate than Mr. Thomson's 
assailants suppose — long after the 
poor bard was beyond the reach of 
money, and all superior consolations, 
who can envy it, or who can say that it 
offers any offence to the manes of the 
unhappy poet ? The charge was indeed 
never preferred but in ignorance, and 
would be totally unworthy of notice, 



if ignorant parties were still apt to h*. 
imposed upon by it." 



No. I. 



a. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, September 1792. 

Sir, — For some years past I have, 
with a friend or two, employed many 
leisure hours in selecting and collating 
the most favourite of our national mel- 
odies for publication. We have en- 
gaged Pleyel, the most agreeable com- 
poser living, to put accompaniments 
to these, and also to compose an in- 
strumental pr lude and conclusion to 
each air, the better to fit them for con- 
certs, both public and private. To 
render this work perfect we are desir- 
ous to have the poetry improved wher- 
ever it seems unworthy of the music^ 
and that it is so in many instances is 
allowed by every one conversant with 
our musical collections. The editors 
of these seem in general to have de- 
pended on the music proving an ex-^ 
cuse for the verses; and hence some 
charming melodies are united to mere 
nonsense and doggerel, while others 
are accommodated with rhymes so loose 
and indelicate as cannot be sung in 
decent company. To remove this re- 
proach would be an easy task to the 
author of the ' ' Cotter's Saturday 
Night;" and, for the honour of Cale- 
donia, I would fain hope he may be- 
induced to take up the pen. If so, we 
shall be enabled to present the public 
with a collection infinitely more inter- 
esting than any that has yet appeared, 
and acceptable to all persons of taste, 
whether they wish for correct melo- 
dies, delicate accompaniments, or char- 
acteristic verses. — We will esteem 
your poetical assistance a particular 
favour, besides paying any reasonable 
price you shall please to demand for it. 
— Profit is quite a secondary considera- 
tion with us, and we are resolved to 
spare neither pains nor expense on the 
publication. Tell me frankly, then, 
whether you will devote your leisure 
to writing twenty or twenty-five songs, 



WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 



519 



suited to the particular melodies 
whicli I am prepared to send you. A 
few songs, exceptionable only in some 
of their verses, 1 will likewise submit 
to your consideration; leaving it to 
you either to mend these, or make new 
songs in their stead. It is superfluous 
"to assure you that I have no intention 
to displace any of the sterling old 
Bongs; those only will be removed 
which appear quite silly, or absolutely 
indecent. Even these shall be all ex- 
amined by Mr. Burns, and, if he is of 
opinion that any of them are deserving 
of the music, in such cases no divorce 
shall take place. 

Relying on the letter accompanying 
this, to be forgiven for the liberty 
1 have taken in addressing you, I am, 
with great esteem, sir, your most 
obedient humble servant, 

G. Thomson. 



No. II. 



BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Dumfries, i6th Sept. 1792. 
Sir, — I have just this moment got 
your letter. As the request you make 
to me will positively add to my enjoy- 
ments in complying with it, I shall 
enter into your undertaking with all 
the small portion of abilities I have, 
strained to their utmost exertion by 
the impulse of enthusiasm. — Only, 
don't hurry me: "Deil take the hind- 
most " is by no means the cri de gu'erre 
of my muse. Will you, as I am in- 
ferior to none of you in enthusiastic 
attachment to the poetry and music of 
old Caledonia, and, since you request 
it, have cheerfully promised my mite 
of assistance — will you let me have a 
list of your airs with the first line 
of the printed' verses you intend for 
them, that I may have an opportunity 
of suggesting any alteration that may 
occur to me? You know 'tis in the 
way of my trade; still leaving you, 
gentlemen, the undoubted right of 
publishers to approve or reject at your 
pleasure for your own publication. — 
Apropos ! if you are for English verses, 
tfkOT^ is, on mjr part, &n end of the 



matter. Whether in the simplicity of 
the ballad or the pathos of the song, I 
can only hope to please myself in being 
allowed at least a sprinkling of our 
native tongue. English verses par- 
ticularly the works of Scotsmen, that 
have merit, are certainly very eligible. 
" Tweedside ! " — " Ah ! the poor shep- 
herd's mournful fate ! " — " Ah ) 
Chloris, could 1 now but sit," &c., you 
cannot mend: but such insipid stuff as 
" To Fanny fair could I impart," &c., 
usually set to " The Mill, Mill, O !" is 
a disgrace to the collections in which it 
has already appeared, and would 
doubly disgrace a collection that will 
have the very superior merit of yours. 
Bat more of this in the further prose- 
cution of the business, if I am called 
on for my strictures and amendments 
— I say amendments; for I will not 
alter except where I myself at least 
think that I amend. 

As to any remuneration', you may 
think my songs either above or below 
price; for they shall absolutely be the 
one or the other. In the honest enthu- 
siasm with which I embark in your 
undertaking, to talk of money, wages, 
fee, hire, &c., would be downright 
prostitution* of soul ! A proof of each 
of the songs that I compose or amend, 
I shall receive as a favour. In the 
rustic phrase of the season, "Gude 
speed the wark ! " — I am, sir, your 
very humble servant, 

R. Burns. 

P. S. — I have some particular 
reasons for wishing my interference 
to be known as little as possible. 



No. III. 
G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Oct. 13, 1792. 

Dear Sir, — I received with much 
satisfaction your pleasant and obliging 
letter, and I return my warmest ac- 
knowledgments for the enthusiasm 

*Wc have been informed that Burns marked 
his loathing of remuneration by the use of 
even a stronger term than this, which was 
substituted by the original editor,— 'CHAMBijRSt 



520 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 



with which you have entered into our 
undertaking. We have now no doubt 
of being able to produce a collection 
highly deserving of public attention in 
all respects. 

I agree with you in thinking Eng- 
lish verses that have merit very eligi- 
ble wherever new verses are necessary ; 
because the English becomes every 
year more and more the langauge of 
Scotland; but if you mean that no 
English verses except those by Scot- 
tish authors ought to be admitted, I 
am half inclined to difEer from you. I 
should consider it unpardonable to 
sacrifice one good song in the Scottish 
dialect, to make room for English 
verses; but if we can select a few ex- 
cellent ones suited to the unprovided 
or ill-provided airs, would it not be 
the very bigotry of literary patriotism 
to reject such merely because the au- 
thors were, born south of the Tweed? 
Our sweet air, " My Nannie, 0," which 
in the collections is joined to the poor- 
est stuff that Allan Ramsay ever 
wrote, beginning, "While some for 
pleasure pawn their health," answers 
so finely to Dr. Percy's beautiful song, 
"0 Nancy, wilt thou go with me?" 
that one would think he wrote it on 
purpose for the air. However, it is 
not at all our wish to confine you to 
English verses: you shall freely be al- 
lowed a sprinkling of your native 
tongue, as you elegantly express it; 
and moreover we will patiently await 
your own time. One thing only I beg, 
which is, that however gay and sport- 
ive the muse may be, she may always 
be decent. Let her not write what 
beauty would blush to speak, nor 
wound that charming delicacy which 
forms the most precious dowry of our 
daughters. I do not conceive the 
song to be the most proper vehicle for 
witty and brilliant conceits: simpli- 
city, I believe, should be its prominent 
feature; but in some of our songs 
the writers have confounded simpli- 
city with coarseness and vulgarity; al- 
though between the one and tlie other, 
as Dr. Beattie well observes, there is as 
pryeat ; . difference as between a plain suit 
H clothes and a bundle of rags. The 



humourous ballad, or pathetic com- 
plaint, is best suited to our artless 
melodies; aiid more interesting, in- 
deed, in all songs, than the most 
pointed wit, dazzling descriptions, and 
liowery fancies. 

With these trite observations, I send 
you eleven of the songs for which it is 
my wish to substitute others of your 
writing. I shall soon transmit the 
rest, and at the same time a prospec- 
tus of the whole collection; and you 
may believe we will receive any hints 
that you are so kind as to give for im- 
proving the work with the greatest 
pleasure and thankfulness. — ^I remain, 
dear sir, &c. , 

G. Thomson. 



No. IV. 



BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Friday Night. 

My dear Sir, — Let me tell you that 
you are too fastidious in your ideas of 
songs and ballads. I own that your 
criticisms are just; the songs you 
specify in your list have, all but one, 
the faults you remark in them; but 
who shall mend the matter? Who 
shall rise up and say — Go to, I will 
make abetter? For instance, on read- 
ing over "The Lea-Rig," I immedi- 
ately set about trying my hand on it, 
and, after all, I could make nothing 
more of it than the following, which, 
Hejtven knows, is poor enough: — [See 
"My ain kind dearie, 0," p. 242.] 

Your observation as to the aptitude 
of Dr. Percy's ballad to the air, " Nan- 
nie, O," is just. It is besides, perhaps, 
the most beautiful ballad in the Eng- 
lish language. But let me remark to 
you, that in the sentiment and style of 
our Scottish airs there is a pastoral sim- 
plicity, a something that one may call 
the Doric style and dialect of vocal 
music, to which a dash of our native 
tongue and manners is particularly, 
nay, peculiarly, apposite. For this 
reason, and upon my honour, for this 
reason alone, I am of opinion (but, as I 
told you before, my opinion is yours, 
freely yours, to approve or reject, Ml 



WITS GEOUGE THOMSON. 



5^1 



you please) that my ballad of " Nan- 
nie, O !" might perhaps do for one set 
of verses to the tune. Now don't Jet it 
enter mto your head that you are un- 
der any necessity of taking my verses. 
I have long ago made up my mind as 
to my own reputation in the business 
of authorship; and have nothing to be 
pleased or offended at in your adoption 
or rejection of my verses. Though you 
should reject one half of what I give 
you, I shall be pleased with your 
adopting the other half, and shall 
continue to serve you Avith the same 
assiduity. 

In the printed copy of my " Nannie, 
O," the name of the river is horridly 
prosaic. I will alter it— 

" Behind yon hills where Lugar flows." 
Girvan is the name of the river that 
suits tlie idea of the stanza best, but 
Lugar is the most agreeable modula- 
tion of syllables. 

I will soon give you a great many 
more remarks on this business; but I 
have just now an opportunity of con- 
veying you this scrawl, free of post- 
age, an expense that it is ill able to pay: 
so, with my best compliments to hon- 
est Allan, Gude be wi' ye, &c. , 

R. B. 



Saturday Morning. 
As I find I have still an hour to spare 
thig morning before my conveyance 
^oes away, 1 will give you "Nannie, 

!" at length. 

Your remarks on "Ewe-bughts, 
Marion," are just; still it has obtained 
a place among our more classical 
Scottish songs; and, what with many 
beauties in its composition, and more 
prejudices in its favour, you will not 
find it easy to supplant it. 

In my very early years, when I was 
tlimkmg of going to the West Indies, 

1 took the following farewell of a dear 
girl. [See "Will you go to the In- 
dies, my Mary?" p. 200.] It is quite 
tnflmg, and has nothing of the merits 
of_ " Ewe-bughts;" but it will fill up 
this page. You must know that all 
nay earlier love-songs were the breath- 
ings of ardent passiou, and though 



■it might have been easy in aftertimes 
to have given them a polish, yet that 
polish, to me, whose they were, and 
who perhaps alone cared for them, 
would have defaced the legend of my 
heart, which was so faithfully inscrib- 
ed on them. Their uncouth simpli- 
city was, as they say of wines, their 
race. 

"Gala Water," and "Auld Rob 
Morris," I think, will most probably 
be the next subject of my musings. 
However, even on my verses, speak 
out your criticisms with equal frank- 
ness. My wish is, not to stand aloof, 
the uncomplying bigot of opinidtrete, 
but cordially to join issue with you in 
the furtherance of the work. 



No. V. 



BURNS TO G. THOM-SON. 

Nov. 8, 1792. 

If you mean my dear sir, that all 
the songs in your collection shalJ 
be poetry of the first merit, I am 
afraid you will find more difficulty in 
the undertaking than you are aware of. 
There is a peculiar rhythmus in many 
of our airs, and a necessity for adapt- 
ing syllables to the emphasis, or what 
I would call the feature-notes of the 
tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him 
under almost insuperable difficulties. 
For instance, in the air, " My wife's a 
wanton wee thing," if a few lines 
smooth and pretty can be adapted to 
it, it is all you can expect. The foL 
lowing ["My wife's a winsome wee 
thing," p. 243] were made extempore 
to it; and though, on further study, I 
might give you something more pro- 
found, yet it might not suit the light- 
horse gallop of the air so well as this 
random clink. 

I have just been looking over the 
"Collier's Bonny Dochter;" and if the 
following rhapsody, which I composed 
the other day, on a charming Ayrshire 
girl. Miss Lesley Baillie (afterwards 
Mrs. Gumming of Logie,) as she passed 
through this place to England, will 
suit your taste better than the " ColU«< 



m 



CORRESPONbENCiE 01* BtdRNS 



Lassie," — fall on and welcome: — [See 
" Bonnie Lesley," p. 234. J 

I have hitherto deferred the sub- 
liraer, more pathetic airs, until more 
leisure, as they will take, and deserve, 
a greater effort. However, they are 
all put into your hands, as clay into 
the hands of the potter, to make one 
vessel to honour, and another to dis- 
honour. — Fare^jsell, &c., R. B. 



No. VI. 



BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Nov. 14, 1792. 

My dear sir, — I agree with you 
that the song, " Katherine Ogie," is 
?ery poor stuff, and unworthy, alto- 
gether unworthy, of so beautiful an 
iir. I tried to mend it; but the awk- 
ward sound, Ogie, recurring so often 
ji the rhyme, spoils every attempt at 
utroducing sentiment into the piece. 
The foregoing song [" Highland 
Mary," p. 242] pleases myself; 1 think 
t is in my happiest manner: yon will 
see at first glance that it suits the air. 
The subject of the song is one of the 
most interesting passages of myyouth- 
xd days; and I own that I should be 
much flattered to see the verses set to 
an air which would insure celebrity. 
Perhaps, after all, 'tis the still glow- 
ing prejudice of my heart that throws 
a borrowed lustre over the merits of 
the composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of 
•' Auld Rob Morris." I have adopted 
the first two verses, and am going on 
with the song on a new plan, which 
promises pretty well. I take up one 
or another, just as the bee of the mo- 
ment buzzes in my bonnet-lug; and do 
you, satis ceremonie, make what use 
you choose of the productions. — Adieu, 
'&c. R. B. 



No. VII. 
G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Nov. 1792. 
Dear Sir, — I was just going to 
write to you, that on meeting with 



your Nannie, I had fallen violently in 
love with her. I thank you, there- 
fore, in sending the charming rustic t« 
me in the dress you wish her to ap. 
pear before the public. She does you 
great credit, and will soon be admit- 
ted into the best company. 

I regret that your song for the 
"Lea-Rig" is so short; the air is easy, 
soon sung, and very pleasing: so that, 
if the singer stops at the end of two 
stanzas, it is a pleasure lost ere it is 
well possessed. 

Although a dash of our native, 
tongue and manners is doubtless pecu - 
liarly congenial and appropriate to our 
melodies, yet I shall be able to present 
a considerable number of the very 
Flowers of English Song, well adapt 
ed to these melodies, which, in Eng 
laud at least, will be the means of 
recommending them to still greater 
attention than they have procured 
there. But, you will observe, my 
plan is, that every air shall in the first 
place have verses wholly by Scottish 
poets; and that those of English 
writers shall follow as additional 
songs, for the choice of the singer. 

What you say of the " Ewe-bughts " 
is just; I admire it, and never meant 
to supplant it. — All I requested was, 
that you would try your hand on some 
of the inferior stanzas, which are ap- 
parently no part of the original song; 
but this I do not urge, because the 
song is of sufficient length, though 
those inferior stanzas be omitted, as 
they will be by the singer of taste. You 
must not think 1 expect all the songs 
to be of superlative merit; that were 
an unreasonable expectation. I am 
sensible that no poet can sit down dog- 
gedly to pen verses, and succeed well, 
at all times. 

I am highly pleased with your 
humorous and amorous rhapsody on 
" Bonnie Lesley;" it is a thousand 
times better than the "Collier's Las- 
sie." "The deil he cou'd na scaith 
thee," &c. , is an eccentric and happy 
thought. Do you not think, however, 
that the names of such old heroes as 
Alexander sound rather queer, unless 
in pompous or mere burlesc^ue verse \ 



WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 



Instead of tlie line, " And never 
made anither," I would humbly 
suggest, " And ne'er made sic 
anither," and I would fain have you 
substitute some other line for " Re- 
turn to Caledonie," in the last verse, 
because I think this alteration of the 
orthography, and of the sound of Cal- 
edonia, disfigures the word, and 
renders it Hudibrastic. 

Of the other song — " My wife's a 
winsome wee thing," I think the first 
eight lines very good: but I do not ad- 
mire the other eight, because four of 
them are a bare repetition of the first 
verse. I have been trying to spin a 
Btanza, but could make nothing better 
than the following: do you mend it, 
">r, as "Torick did with the love-letter, 
whip it up in your way : — 

O leeze me on my wee thing, 
My bonnie blithesome wee thing; 
Sae lang"b I hae my wee thing, 
I'll think my lot divine. 

Though warld's care we share o't, 
And may see meikle mair o't, 
Wi' her I'll blithely bear it, 
And ne'er a word repine. 

You perceive, my dear sir, I avail 
myself of the liberty, which you con- 
descend to allow me, by speaking 
freely what I think. Be assured, it is 
not my disposition to pick out the 
faults of any poem or picture I see: 
jny first and chief object is to discover 
and be delighted with the beauties of 
the piece. If I sit down to examine 
critically, and at leisure, what perhaps, 
you have written in haste, I may hap- 
pen to observe careless lines, the re- 
perusal of which might lead you to 
improve them. The wren will often 
see what has been overlooked by the 
eagle. — I remain yours faithfully, &c., 

G. T. 

P. 8. — Your verses upon " High- 
land Mary " are just come to hand ; 
they breathe the genuine spirit of 
poetry, and, like the music, will last 
for ever. Such verses, united to such 
an air, with the delicate harmony of 
Pleyel superadded, might form a 
treat worthy of being presented to 
Apollo himself. I have heard the 
sad story of your Mary: you always 
seem inspired when you write of her. 



No. VIII. 

BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Dumfries, Dec. i, 1792. 

Youii alterations of my *' Nannie, 
O," are perfectly right. So are those 
of ' ' My wife's a winsome wee thing. " 
Your alteration of the second stanza is 
a positive improvement. Now, my 
dear sir, with the freedom which 
characterises our correspondence, I 
must not, cannot, alter " Bonnie Les- 
ley." You are right, the word " Alex- 
ander " makes the line a little uncouth, 
but I think the thought is pretty. Of 
Alexander, beyond all other heroes, 
it may be said, in the sublime language 
of Scripture, that " he went forth con- 
quering and to conquer. " 

" For nature made her -wtiat she is, 
And never made anither." (Such a person 
as she is.) 

This is, in my opinion, more poeti- 
cal than " ne'er made sic anither." 
However, it is immaterial: make it 
either way. " Caledonie," I agree 
with you, is not so good a word as 
could be wished, though it is sanction- 
ed in three or four instances by Allan 
Ramsay: but I cannot help it. In 
short, that species of stanza is the 
most difficult that I have ever tried. 

The "Lea-Rig" is as follows. — 
(Here the poet repeats the first two 
stanzas, and adds an additional one.) 

I am interrupted. — Yourd, &c. 



No. IX 



BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

December 4, 1792. 

The foregoing [" Auld Rob Morris," 
p. 243, and " Duncan Gray," p. 243] I 
submit, my dear sir, to your better 
judgment. Acquit them, or condemn 
them, as seemeth good in your sight. 
" Duncan Gray" is that lvi]6 of light- 
horse gallop of an air which precludes 
sentiment. The ludicrous iss iid ruling 
feature. 



524 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 



No. X. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Jan. 1793. 

Many returns of the season to you, 
my dear sir. How comes on your pub- 
lication? will these two foregoing [" 
poortith, cauld, and restless love," p. 
249, and "Gala Water," p. 250] be of 
any service to you ? 1 should like to 
know what songs you print to each 
tune, besides the verses to which it is 
set. In short, I would wish to give 
you my opinion on all the poetry you 
publish. You know it is my trade, 
and a man in the way of his trade may 
suggest useful hints that escape men 
of much superior parts and endow- 
ments in other things. 

If you meet with my dear and much- 
valued Cunningham, greet him, in my 
name, with the compliments of the 
season. — ^Yours, &c. 



No. XI. 



G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Jan. 20, 1793. 

You make me happy, my dear sir, 
and thousands will be happy to see 
the charming songs you have sent me. 
Many merry returns of the season to 
you, and may you long continue, 
among the sons and daughters of . Cal- 
edonia, to delight them and to honour 
yourself. 

The last four songs with which you 
favoured me, viz., "Auld Rob Mor- 
ris," " Duncan Gray," " Gala Water," 
and " Cauld Kail," are admirable. 
Duncan is indeed a lad of grace, and 
his humour will endear him to every- 
body. 

The distracted lover in " Auld Rob," 
and the happy shepherdess in "Gala 
Water," exhibit an excellent contrast: 
they speak from genuine feeling, and 
powerfully touch the heart. 

The number of songs which I had 
originally in view was limited; but I 
now resolve to include every Scotch 



air and song worth singing; leaving 
none behind but mere gleanings, to 
which the publishers of omnium' 
gatherum are welcome. I would rather 
be the editor of a collection from which 
nothing could be taken away, than of 
one to which nothing could be added. 
We intend presenting the subscribers 
wich two beautiful stroke engravings; 
the one characteristic of the plaintive, 
and the other of the lively, songs; and 
I have Dr. Beattie's promise of an es- 
say upon the subject of our national 
music, if his health will permit him 
to write it. As a number of our songs 
have doubtless been called forth by 
particular events, or by the charms of 
peerless damsels, there must be many 
curious anecdotes relating to them. 

The late Mr. Tytler of Woodhouse- 
lee, I believe, knew more of this than 
anybody; for he joined to the pursuits 
of an antiquary a taste for poetry, be- 
sides being a man of the world, and 
possessing an enthusiasm for music 
beyond most of his contemporaries. 
He was quite pleased with this plan of 
mine, for 1 may say it has been solely 
managed by me, and we had several 
long conversations about it when it 
was in embryo. If I could simply 
mention the name of the heroine of 
each song, and the incident which oc- 
casioned the verses, it would be gratis 
fying. Pray, will you send me any 
information of this sort, as well with 
regard to your own songs, as the old 
ones? 

To all the favourite songs of the 
plaintive or pastoral kind, will be 
joined the delicate accompaniments, 
&c. , of Pleyel. To those of the comic 
and humorous class, I think accom- 
paniments scarcely necessary; they are 
chiefly fitted for the conviviality of the 
festive board, and a tuneful voice, 
with a proper delivery of the words, 
renders them perfect. Nevertheless, 
to these I propose adding bass accom- 
paniments, because then they are fit- 
ted either for singing, or for instru- 
mental performance, when there hap- 
pens to be no singer. I mean to em- 
ploy our right trusty friend Mr. Clarke, 
to set the bass to these, which he a«« 



WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 



535 



8ures me lie will do con amore, and 
with much greater attention than he 
ever bestowed on anything of the kind. 
But for this last class of airs 1 will not 
attempt to find more than one set of 
Verses. 

That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, 
has started I know not how many 
difficulties about writing for the airs I 
sent to him, because of the peculiarity 
of their mf^,asure, and the trammels they 
impose on ais flying Pegasus. I subjoin 
for your perusal the only one I have 
yet got from him, being for the fine air 
" Lord Gregory." The Scots verses 
printed with that air, are taken from 
the middle of an old ballad, called 
" The Lass of Lochroyan," which I do 
not admire. I have set down the air, 
therefore, as a creditor of yours. 
Many of the Jacobite songs are re- 
plete with wit and humour : might 
not the best of these be included in 
our volume of comic songs ? 



POSTSCRIPT. 

FROM THE HON. A. ERSKINE. 

Mr. Thomson has been so obliging 
as to give me a perusal of your songs. 
"Highland Mary" is most enchantingly 
pathetic, and "Duncan Gray" pos- 
eesess native genuine humour: " Spak 
o' lowpin o'er a linn," is a line of itself 
that should make you immortal. I 
sometimes hear of you from our mu- 
tual friend Cunningham, who is a 
most excellent fellow, and possesses, 
above all men I know, the charm of a 
most obliging disposition. You kindly 
promised me, about a year ago, a col- 
lection of your unpublished produc- 
tions, religious and amorous; I know 
from experience how irksome it is to 
copy. If you will get any trusty per- 
son in Dumfries to write them over 
fair, I will give Peter Hill whatever 
money he asks for his trouble, and I 
certainly shall not betray your con- 
fidence. — I am your hearty admirer, 

Andrew Erskine. 



No. XII. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Jan. 26, 1793. 

I APPROVE greatly, my dear sir, of 
your plans. Dr. Beattie's essay will of 
itself be a treasure. On my part, I 
mean to draw up an appendix to the 
Doctor's essay, containing my stock of 
anecdotes, &c., of our Scots songs, 
All the late Mr. Tytler's anecdotes 1 
have by me, taken down in the course 
of my acquaintance with him, from 
his own mouth. I am such an enthu- 
siast that, in the course of my several 
peregrinations through Scotland, I 
made a pilgrimage to the individual 
spot from which every song took its 
rise, " Lochaber" and the *' Braes of 
Ballenden" excepted. So far as the 
locality either from the title of the air, 
or the"^ tenor of the song, could be as- 
certained, I have paid my devotions 
at the particular shrine of every Scots 
muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make 
a very valuable collection of Jacobite 
songs; but would it give no offence? 
In the meantime, do not you think 
that some of them, particularly " The 
sow's tail to Geordie," as an air, with 
other words, might be well worth a 
place in your collection of lively 
songs ? 

If it were possible to procure songs 
of merit, it would be proper to have 
one set of Scots words to every air, 
and that the set of words to which the 
notes ought to be set. There is a 
naivete, a pastoral simplicity, in a 
slight intermixture of Scots words and 
phraseology, which is more in unison 
(at least to my taste, and, 1 will add, 
to every genuine Caledonian taste) 
with the simple pathos, or rustic 
sprightliness of our native music, than 
any English verses whatever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar is an 
acquisition to your work. His " Greg- 
ory " is beautiful. I have tried to 
give you a set of stanzas in Scots, on 
the same subject^ which are at your 
service. [See the ballad of " liord 
Gregory," p. 350.] Not that I intead 



526 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 



to enter tlie lists with Peter: that 
would be presumption indeed. My 
;}ong, though much inferior in poetic 
merit, has, I think, more of the ballad 
simplicity in it. 

My most respectful compliments to 
the honourable gentleman who favour- 
ed me with a postscript in your last. 
He shall hear from me and receive his 
MSS. soon. R. B. 



No. XIII. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

March 20, 1793. 

My deak Sm, — The song prefixed 
[•'Mary Morison "J is one of my ju- 
venile works. I leave it in your hands. 
I lo not think it very remarkable, 
either for its merits or demerits. It is 
impossible (at least I feel it so in my 
stinted powers) to be always original, 
entertaining, and witty. 

What is become of the list, &c. , of 
your songs ? I shall be out of all 
temper with you by and by. I have 
always looked on myself as the prince 
of indolent correspondents, and valued 
myself accordingly; and I will not, 
cannot bear rivalship from you, nor 
anybody else. R. B. 



No. XIV. 

G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, April 2, 1793. 

I "WILL not recognize the title you 
give yourself, "the prince of indolent 
correspondents;" but if the adjective 
were taken away, I think the title 
would then fit you exactly. It gives 
me pleasure to find you can furnish 
anecdotes with respect to most of the 
songs: these will be a literary curios- 
ity. 

I now send you my list of the songs, 
which I believe will be found nearly 
complete. I have put down the first 
lines of all the English songs which I 
propose giving in addition to the 
Scotch verses. If any others occur to 
you, better adapted to the character of 



the airs, pray mention them, when you 
favour me with your strictures upon 
everything else relating to the work. 

Pleyel has lately sent me a number 
of the songs, with his symphonies and 
accompaniments added to them. I 
wish you were here, that I might serve 
up some of them to you with your own 
verses, by way of dessert after dinner. 
There is so much delightful fancy in 
the symphonies, and such a delicate ^ 
simplicity in the accompaniments — 
they are, indeed, beyond all praise. 

I am very much pleased with the 
several last productions of your muse: 
your " Lord Gregory," in my estima- 
tion, is more interesting than Peter's, 
beautiful as his is. Your " Hereawa, 
Willie,"must undergo some alterations 
to suit the airo Mr. Erskine and I 
have been conning it over: he will 
suggest what is necessary to make 
them a fit match. The gentleman I 
have mentioned, whose fine taste you 
are no stranger to, is so well pleased, 
both with the musical and poetical 
part of our work, that he has volun- 
teered his assistance, and has already 
written four songs for it, which, by 
his own desire, I send you for your 
perusal. G. T. 



No. XV. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

April 7, 1793. 

Thank you, my dear sir, for your 
packet. You cannot imagine how 
much this business of composing for 
your publication has added to my en- 
joyments. What with my early at- 
tachment to ballads, your book, &c., 
ballad-making is now as completely 
my hobbyhorse as ever fortification 
was Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en canter 
it away till I come to the limit of my 
race, (God grant that I may take the 
right side of the winning-post !) and 
then, cheerfully looking back on the 
honest folks with whom I have been 
happy, I shall say, or sing, " Sa« 
merry as we a' liae been," and, raising 
my last looks to the whole human race, 
the last words of the voice of Coif«r 



WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 



627 



shall \)e " Good night, and joy be wi' 
you a' '" So much for my last words: 
now for a few present remarks, as 
they have occured at random on look- 
hig over your list. 

The first lines of ' ' The last time I 
came o'er the moor," and several other 
lines in it, are beautiful; but in my 
opinion — pardon me, revered shade of 
Ramsay ! the song is unworthy the 
divine air. I shall try to make or 
mend. " For ever. Fortune, wilt thou 
prove," is a charming song; but " Lo- 
gan Burn and Logan Braes " are sweet- 
ly susceptible of rural imagery: I'll 
try that likewise, and, if I succeed, 
the other song may class among the 
English ones. I remember the two 
last lines of a verse in some of the old 
songs of "Logan Water " (for I know 
a good many different ones) which I 
think pretty: — 

" Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes." 

"MyPatie is a lover gay" is un- 
equal. " His mind is never muddy," 
is a muddy expression indeed. 

"Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
And syne my cockernony ! " 

This is surely far unworthy of Ram- 
*jay or your book. My song, " Rigs of 
Barley," to the same tune, does not al- 
together please me; but if I can mend 
it and thrash a few loose sentiments 
out of it, I will submit it to your con- 
sideration. " The Lass o' Patie'sMill" 
is one of Ramsay's best songs; but 
there is one loose sentiment in it, 
which my much-valued friend, Mr. 
Erskine, will take into his critical 
consideration. In Sir J. Sinclair's 
Statistical volumes are two claims; 
one, I think, from Aberdeenshire, and 
the other from Ayrshire, for the hon- 
our of this song. The following anec- 
dote, which I had from the present 
Sir William Cunningham of Robert- 
land, who had it of the late John, Earl 
of Loudon, I can, on such authorities, 
believe: — 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Lou- 
don Castle with the then Earl, father 
to Earl John; and one forenoon riding 
or walking; out together, his lordship 



and Allan passed a sweet, romantic 
spot on Irvine Water, still called 
" Patie's Mill," where a bonny lass 
was "tedding hay, bareheaded, on the 
green." My lord observed to Allan 
that it would be a fine theme for a 
song. Ramsay took the hint, and lin- 
gering behind, he composed the first 
sketch of it, which he produced at 
dinner. 

" One day I heard Mary say," is a 
fine song; but, for consistency's sake, 
alter the name " Adonis." Were 
there ever such banns published as a 
purpose of marriage between Adonis 
and Mary? I agree with you that my 
song, ' * There's nought but care on 
every hand," is much superior to 
" Poortith cauld." The original song, 
" The Mill, Mill, O," though excellent, 
is, on account of delicacy, inadmis- 
sible ; still 1 like the title, and think a 
Scottish song would suit the notes 
best; and let your chosen song, which 
is very pretty, follow, as an English 
set. • ' The banks of the Dee" is, you 
know, literally, " Langolee," to slow 
time. The song is well enough, but 
has some false imagery in it; for in- 
stance, 

"And sweetly the nightingale sung from 
the tree." 

In the first place, the nightingale 
sings in a low bush, but never from a 
tree; and in the second place, there 
never was a nightingale seen, or heard, 
on the banks of the Dee, or on the 
banks of any other river in Scotland. 
Exotic rural imagery is always com- 
paratively flat. If I could hit on an- 
other stanza, equal to "The small 
birds rejoice," &c. I do myself hon- 
estly avow that 1 think it a superior 
song. " John Anderson, my Jo," the 
song to this tune in Johnson's Miiseum 
is my composition, and I think it not 
my worst: if it suit you, take it and 
welcome. Your collection of senti- 
mental and pathetic songs is, in my 
opinion, very complete; but not so 
your comic ones. Where are " Tul- 
lochgorum," " Lumps o' puddin*," 
"Tibbie Fowler," and several others, 
which in my humble judgment, are 
well worthy of preservation? TkoiQ 



correspondence: of burns 



is also one sentimental song of mine 
in the Museum, which never was 
known out of the immediate neigh- 
bourhood, until I got it taken down 
from a country girl's singing. It is 
called " Craigieburn Wood;" and in 
the opinion of Mr Clarke, is one of the 
sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite 
an enthusiast about it; and I would 
take his taste in Scottish music against 
the taste of most connoisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the 
last five in your list, though they are 
certainly Irish. " Shepherds, I have 
lost my love !" is to me g, heavenly air 
— what would you think of a set of 
Scottish verses to it ? I have made one 
to it a good while ago, but in its orig- 
inal state it is not quite a lady's song. 
I enclose an altered, not amended, 
copy for you, if you choose to set the 
tune to it, and let the Irish verses fol- 
low. 

Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, 
but his "Lone Vale" is divine. — 
Yours, &c., 

R. B. 

Let me know just how you like 
these random hints. 



No. XVI. 

G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, April 1793. 

I RRIOICE to find, my dear sir, that 
ballad-making continues to be your 
hobbyhorse. — Great pity 'twould be 
were it otherwise. I hope you will 
amble it away for many a year, and 
' ' witch the world with your horseman- 
ship." 

I know there are a good many lively 
songs of merit that I have not put 
down in the list sent you; but I have 
them all in my eye. — "My Patie is a 
lover gay," though a little unequal, is 
a natural and very pleasing song, and 
I humbly think we ought not to dis- 
place or alter it, except the last stanza. 



No. XVII. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSO.^. 

April 1793. 

I HAVE yours, my dear sir, this mo- 
ment. I shall answer it and your for- 
mer letter in my desultory way of say- 
ing whatever comes uppermost. 

The business of many of our tunes, 
wanting at the beginning what fiddlers 
call a starting note, is often a rub to 
us poor rhymers. 

" There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander through the blooming 
heather," 

you may alter to 

"• Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
Ye wander," &c. 

My song, "Here awa, there awa," 
as amended by Mr. Erskine, I entirely 
approve of, and return you. 

Give me leave to criticise your taste 
in the only thing in which it is, in my 
opinion, reprehensible. You know I 
ought to know something of my own 
trade. Of pathos, sentiment, and 
point, you are a complete judge; but 
there is a quality more necessary than 
either in a song, and which is the very 
essence of a ballad; I mean simplicity: 
now, if I mistake not, this last feature 
you are a little apt to sacrifice to the 
foregoing. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not 
been always equally happy in his 
pieces: still I cannot approve of 
taking such liberties with an author 
as Mr, W. proposes doing with " The 
last time I came o'er the moor." Let 
a poet, if he chooses, take up the idea 
of another, and work it into a piece of 
his own; but to mangle the works of 
the poor bard, whose tuneful tongue 
is now mute for ever, in the dark and 
narrow house, — by Heaven, 'twould be 
sacrilege ! I grant that Mr. W.'s ver- 
sion is an improvement; but I knoW 
Mr. W. well, and esteem him much; 
let him mend the song as the High- 
lander mended his gun: he gave it 9 
new stock, a new lock, and a new barrel 

I do not, by this, object to leaving 
out improper stanzas, where that caq 
be done without spoiling the whole. 
One stanza in *' The Lass o' Patie'3 



WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 



8S9 



Mill" must be left out: the song will 
be nothing worse for it. 1 am not 
sure if we can take the same liberty 
with "Corn rigs are bonnie." Per- 
haps it might want the last stanza, 
and be the better for it. " Cauld 
Kail in Aberdeen" you must leave 
with me yet a while. I have vowed 
to have a song to that air, on the lady 
whom I attempted to celebrate in the 
verses, " Poortith cauld and restless 
love." At any rate, my other song, 
" Green grow the Rashes" will never 
suit. That song is current in Scotland 
under the old title, and to the merry 
old tune of that name; which, of 
course, would mar the progress of your 
song to celebrity. Your book will be 
the standard of Scots songs for the fu- 
ture: let this idea ever keep your 
judgment on the alarm. 

1 send a song on a celebrated toast 
in this country, to suit ' ' Bonnie Dun- 
dee," I send you also a ballad to the 
" Mill, Mill, O." 

" The last time I came o'er the 
moor" I would fain attempt to make a 
Scots song for, and let Ramsay's be the 
English set. You shall hear from me 
soon. When you go to London on 
this business, can you come by Dum- 
fries ? 1 have still several MS. Scots 
airs by me, which I have picked up, 
mostly from the singing of country 
lasses. They please me vastly; but 
your learned lugs would perhaps be 
displeased with the very feature for 
which I like them, I call them sim- 
ple; you would pronounce them silly. 
, Do you know a fine air called ** Jackie 
Hume's Lament T' I have a song of 
considerable merit to that air. I'll en- 
close you both the song and tune, as 
I had them ready to send to John- 
son's Museum. I send you likewise, 
to me, a beautiful little air, which I 
had taken down from viva voce. — 
Adieu 1 R. B. 



when I took up the subject of " The " 
last time I came o'er the moor," and 
ere I slept drew the outlines of the 
foregoing. How far I have succeeded, 
I leave on this, as on every other, oc- 
casion, to you to decide. I own my 
vanity is flattered when you give my 
songs a place in your elegant and su- 
perb work; but to be of service to the 
work is my first wish. As I have 
often told you, I do not in a single in- 
stance wish you, out of compliment 
to me, to insert anything of mine. 
One hint let me give you — whatever 
Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter one 
iota of the original Scottish airs: I 
mean in the song department; but let 
our national music preserve its native 
features. They are, I own, frequently 
wild and irreducible to the more mod- 
ern rules; but on that very eccentri- 
city, perhaps, depends a great part of 
their effect. 

R. B. 



No. XVIII. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

April 179^. 

My dear Sir, — I had scarcely put 
my last letter into the post-office, 



No. XIX. 
G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, April 26, 1793. 

I HEARTILY thank you, my dear sir, 
for your last two letters, and the songs 
which accompanied them. I am 
always both instructed and entertained 
by your observations; and the frank- 
ness with which you speak out your 
mind is to me highly agreeable. It is 
very possible I may not have the true 
idea of simplicity in composition. I 
confess there are several songs, of 
Allan Ramsay's for example, that I 
think silly enough, which another 
person, more conversant than I have 
been with country people, would per- 
haps call simple and natural. But the 
lowest scenes of simple nature will not 
please generally, if copied precisely as 
they are. The poet, like the painter, 
must select what will form an agree- 
able, as well as a natural picture. On 
this subject it were easy to enlarge-, 
but at present suffice it to say that I 
consider simplicity, rightly under- 
stood, as a most essential quality iw 
composition, and the groundwork o4 



m 



CORRfiSPOl^DENCE OF BUHKS 



beauty in all the arts. I will gladly 
appropriate your most interesting new 
ballad, "When wild war's deadly 
blast," &c., to the "Mill, Mill, 0," 
as well as the two other songs to their 
respective airs; but the third and 
fourth lines of the first verse must un- 
dergo some little alteration in order 
to suit the music. Pleyel does not 
alter a single note of the songs. That 
would be absurd indeed ! With the 
airs which he introduces into the sona- 
tas, I allow him to take such liberties 
as he pleases, but that has nothing to 
do with the songs. 

P. S. — I wish you would do as you 
proposed with your ' ' Rigs of Barley. " 
If the loose sentiments are thrashed 
out of it, I will find an air for it; but 
as to this there is no hurry. 

G. T. 



No. XX. 

BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

June 1793. 

When I tell you, my dear sir, that 
a friend of mine, in whom I am much 
interested, has fallen a sacrifice to 
these accursed times, you will easily 
allow that it might unhinge me for 
doing any good among ballads; My 
own loss as to pecuniary matters, is 
trifling: but the total ruin of a much- 
loved friend is a loss indeed. Pardon 
my seeming inattention to your last 
commands. 

I can not alter the disputed lines in 
the " Mill, Mill, O." What you 
think a defect, I esteem as a positive 
beauty: so you see how doctor s differ. 
I shall now, with as much alacrity as 
I can muster, go on with your com- 
mands. 

You know Fraser, the hautboy player 
in Edinburgh — he is here, instructing 
a band of music for a fencible corps 
quartered in this country. Among 
many of his airs that please me, there 
is one, well known as a reel by the 
name of "The Quaker's Wife," and 
which I remember a grandauut of mine 
used to sing, by the name of " Lig- 
geram Cosh, m^ bonay wee lass." 



Mr. Fraser plays it slow, and vith an 
expression that quite charms/me. 1 
became such an enthusiast about it 
that I made a song of it, wli/ch 1 here 
subjoin, and enclose Fraser'sset of the 
tune. [See "Blithe hae I been," p. 
253.] If they hit your fancy they are 
at your service; if not, return me the 
tune, and I will put it in Johnson's 
3Iu8eum. I think the song is not in 
my worst manner. I should wish to 
hear how this pleases you. 

R. B. 



No. XXI. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

June 25, 1793. 

Have you ever, my dear sir, felt 
your bosom ready to burst with indig- 
nation on reading of those mighty vil- 
lains who divide kingdom against 
kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay 
nations waste, out of the wantonness 01 
ambition, or often from still more ig- 
noble passions ? In a mood of this 
kind to-day, I recollected the air of 
"Logan Water," and it occurred to 
me that its querulous melody prob< 
ably had its origin from the plaintive 
indignation of some swelling, suffer- 
ing heart, fired at the tyrannic strides 
of some public destroyer; and over 
whelmed with private distress, tlid 
consequence of a country's ruin. If I 
have done anything at all like justicb 
to my feelings, the following song, 
composed in three-quarters of an 
hour's meditation in my elbow-chair, 
ought to have some merit: — ["Logan 
Braes," p. 253.] 

Do you know the following beautiful 
little fragment, in Witherspoon's col- 
lection of Scots songs ? 

yl/r— "Hughie Graham." 

" Oh, gin my love were yon red rosCo 
That grows upon the castle wa'; 

And I mysel a drap o' dew, 
Into her bonny breast to fa' ! 

" Oh, there beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night 



Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest 



Till fiey'd awa by Phoebus' light 



This thought is inexpressiblj beauty 



WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 



m 



ful; and quite, so far as I know, orig- 
inal. It is too short for a song, else I 
would forswear you altogether, unless 
you gave it a place. I have often 
tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain. 
After balancing myself for a musing 
five minutes, on the hind-legs of my 
elbow-chair, I produced the following. 
The verses are far inferior to the 
foregoing, I frankly confess; but, if 
worthy of insertion at all they might 
be first in place; as every poet, who 
knows anything of his trade, will hus- 
band his best thoughts for a conclud- 
ing stroke: — 

Oh were my love yon lilac fair 
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; 

And I, a bird to shelter there, 
When wearied on my little wing ! 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But I would sing on wanton wing, 
When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd. 

R. B. 



No. XXII. 
G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Monday, July i, 1793. 

I AM extremely sorry, my good sir, 
that anything should happen to un- 
hinge you. The times are terribly out 
of tune, and when harmony will be re- 
stored, Heaven knows. 

The first book of songs, just pub- 
lished, will be despatched to you along 
"with this. Let me be favoured with 
your opinion of it, frankly and freely. 

I shall certainly give a place to the 
song you have written for the ' ' Qua- 
ker's Wife;" it is quite enchanting. 
Pray will you return the list of songs, 
with such airs added to it as you think 
ought to be included? The business 
now rests entirely on myself, the 
gentleman who originally agreed to 
Join the speculation having requested 
to be off. No matter, a loser I cannot 
be. The superior excellence of the 
■work will create a general 'demand for 
jit, as soon as it is properly known. 
And, were the sale even slower than it 
promises to be, I should be somewhat 
compensated for my labour by the 
pleasure I shall receive from the 



music. I cannot express how much I 
am obliged to you for the exquisite 
new songs you are sending me; but 
thanks, my friend, are a poor return 
for what you have done: as I shall b^ 
benefited by the publication, you must 
suffer me to enclose a small mark of my 
gratitude, and to repeat it afterwards, 
when I find it convenient. Do not 
return it, for, by Heaven ! if you do, 
our correspondence is at an end: and, 
though this would be no loss to you, 
it would mar the publication, which, 
under your auspices, cannot fail to be 
respectable and interesting, 

Wednesday Morning, 
I thank you for your delicate addb 
tional verses to the old fragment, and 
for your excellent song to " Logan 
Water: " Thomson's truly elegant one 
will follow for the English singer 
Your apostrophe to statesmen is admi- 
rable, but I am not sure if it is qnitH 
suitable to the supposed gentle charao 
ter of the fair mourner who speaks it. 

G. T. 



No. XXHI. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

July 2, 1793. 

My dear Sir,— I have just finished 
the following ballad: — [" There was a 
lass, and she was fair," p. 254,] and, 
as I do think it in my best style, I send 
it you. Mr. Clarke, who wrote 
down the air from Mrs. Burns' wood- 
note wild, is very fond of it; and 
has given it a celebrity by teaching 
it to some young ladies of the first 
fashion here. If you' do not like the 
air enougli to give it a place in your 
collection, please return it. The song 
you may keep, as I remember it. 

I have some thoughts of inserting in 
your index, or in my notes, the names 
of tli'.i fair ones, the themes of my 
songs. 1 do not mean the name at 
full; but dashes or asterisms, so as 
ingenuity may find them out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss 

M , daughter to Mr. M , of 

D , one of your subscribers. I 



,132 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 



have not painted her in the rank which 
she holds in life, but in the dress and 
character of a cottager. 

R. B. 



No. XXIV. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

July 1793. 

I ASSURE you, my dear sir, that you 
truly hurt me with your pecuniary 
parcel. It degrades me in my own 
eyes. However, to return it would 
savour of affectation; but as to any 
more traffic of that debtor and creditor 
kind, I swear, by that Honour which 
crowns the upright statue of Robert 
BxjRNS' Integrity — on the least 
motion of it, I will indignantly spurn 
the by-past transaction, and from that 
moment commence entire stranger to 
you ! Burns' character for generosity 
of sentiment and independence of mind 
will, [ trust, long outlive any of his 
wants, which the cold unfeeling ore 
can supply: at least, I will take care 
that such a character he shall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your pub- 
lication. Never did my eyes behold, 
in any musical work, such elegance 
and correctness. Your preface, too, is 
admirably written: only your partial- 
ity to me has made you say top much : 
however, it will bind me down to 
double every effort in the future pro- 
gress of the work. The following are 
a few remarks on the songs in the 
list you sent me. I never copy what 1 
write to you, so I may be often tauto- 
logical or perhaps contradictory. 

"The Flowers o' the Forest" is 
charming as a poem; and should be, 
and must be, set to the notes, but, 
though out of your rule, the three 
stanzas, beginning 

" I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling," 

are worthy of a place, were it but to 
immortalise the author of them, who 
is an old lady of my acquaintance, and 
at this moment living in Edinburgh. 
She is a Mrs. Cockburn; I forget of 
what place; but from Roxburghshire. 
What a charming apostrophe is 



" O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting, 
Why, why torment us— poor sons of a day ! " 

The old ballad, ' ' I wish I were 
where Helen lies," is silly to contempti- 
bility. My alteration of it in John- 
son is not much better, Mr. Pinker- 
ton, in his, what he calls, ancient bal- 
lads (many of them notorious, though 
beautiful enough, forgeries) has the 
best set. It is full of his own inter- 
polations,^-but no matter. 

In my next I will suggest to your 
consideration a few songs which may 
have escaped your hurried notice. In 
the meantime allow me to congratulate 
you now, as a brother of the quill. 
You have committed your character 
and fame; which will now be tried, for 
ages to come, by the illustrious jury of 
the Sons and Daughters of Taste 
— all whom poesy can please, or music 
charm. 

Being a bard of Nature, I have some 
pretensions to second sight; and I am 
warranted by the spirit to foretell and 
affirm that your great-grandchild will 
hold up your volumes, and say, with 
honest pride, ' ' This so much admired 
selection was the work of my ances- 
tor !" 



No. XXV. 
G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, August i»i793. 

Dear Sir, — I had the pleasure of 
receiving your last two letters, and am 
happy to find you are quite pleased 
with the appearance of the first book. 
When you come to hear the songs sung 
and accompanied, you will be charmed 
with them. 

' ' The Bonny Brucket I^assie " cer- 
tainly deserves better verses, and I 
hope you will match her. " Cauld 
Kail in Aberdeen," " Let me in this ae 
night," and several of the livelier airs, 
wait the muse's leisure: these are pe- 
culiarly worthy of her choice gifts, 
besides, you'll notice that, in airs of 
this sort, the singer can always do 
greater justice to the poet than in the 
slower airs of ' ' The bush aboon Tra- 
quair," " Lord Gregory," and the like; 



WITH GEOBGE THOMSON. 



533 



for, in the manner the latter are fre- 
quently sung, you must be contented 
with the sound without the sense. In- 
deed, both the airs and words are 
disguised by the very slow, languid, 
psalm-singing style in which they are 
too often performed: they lose anima- 
tion and expression altogether, and in- 
stead of speaking to the mind, or 
touching the heart, they cloy upon the 
3ar, and set us a yawning ! 

Your ballad, ''There was a lass, and 
she was fair," is simple and beautiful, 
and shall undoubtedly grace my col- 
lection. G. T. 



No. XXVI. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

August 1793. 

Your objection, my dear sir, to the 
passage in my song of " Logan 
Water," is right in one instance; but 
it is diflBicult to mend it; if I can I 
will. The other passage you object to 
does not appear in the same light to 
me. 

I have tried my hand on " Robin 
Adair," [See " Phillis the Fair," p. 
254] and, you will probably think, with 
little success: but it is such a cursed, 
cramp, out-of-the-way measure that I 
despair of doing anything better to it. 

So much for namby-pamby. I may, 
after all, try my hand on it in Scots 
verse. There I always find myself 
most at home. 

I have just put the last hand to the 
song I meant for " Cauld Kail in Aber- 
deen." If it suits you to insert it, I 
shall be pleased, as the heroine is a 
favourite of mine: if not, I shall also 
be pleased; because I wish, and will 
be glad, to see you act decidedly on the 
business. 'Tis a tribute as a man of 
taste, and as an editor, which you owe 
yourself. R. B. 



G. 



No. XXVII. 
THOMSON TO BURNS. 

August, 1793. 
Mt good Sir, — I consider it one of 
the most agreeable circumstances 



attending this publication of mine that 
it has procured me so many of your 
much valued epistles. Pray make my 
acknowledgments to St. Stephen for 
the tunes: tell him I admit the just- 
ness of his complaint on my staircase 
conveyed in his laconic postscript to 
your jeu d'esprit; which 1 perused 
more than once, without discovering 
exactly whether your discussion was 
music, astronomy, or politics: though 
a sagacious friend, acquainted with the 
convivial habits of the poet and the 
musician, offered me a bet, of two to 
one, you were just drowning care 
together, that an empty bowl was the 
only thing that would deeply affect 
you, and the only matter you could 
then study how to remedy ! 

I shall be glad to see you give 
"Robin Adair" a Scottish dress. 
Peter is furnishing him with an Eng- 
lish suit for a change, and you are 
well matched together. Robin's air is 
excellent, though he certainly has 
an out-of-the-way measure as ever poor 
Parnassian wight was plagued with. 
I Avish you would invoke the muse for 
a single elegant stanza to be substituted 
for the concluding objectionable verses 
of "Down the burn, Davie," so that 
this most exquisite song may no longer 
be excluded from good company. 

Mr. Allan has made an inimitable 
drawing from your "John Anderson, 
my Jo," which I am to have engraved 
as a frontispiece to the humorous class 
of songs; you will be quite charmed 
with it, I promise you. The old 
couple are seated by the fireside. Mrs. 
Anderson, in great good-humour, is 
clapping John's shoulders, while he 
smiles and looks at her with such glee 
as to show that he fully recollects 
the pleasant days and nights when 
they were " first acquent." The draw- 
ing would do honour to the pencil 
of Teniers. G. T. 



No. XXVIII. 
rJURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

August 1793, 
That crinkum-crankum tune"Robin 
Adair" has run so in my head, and 



534 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 



I succeeded so ill in my last attempt, 
that I have ventured, in this morning's 
walk, one essay more. You, my dear 
sir, will remember an unfortunate part 
of our worthy friend Cunningham's 
story, which happened about three 
years ago» That struck my fancy, and 
I endeavoured to do the idea justice, 
as follows: — [See "Had I a cave," 
p. 255.] 

By the way, I have met with a musi- 
cal Highlander, in Breadalbane's Fen- 
cibles, which are quartered here, who 
assures me that he well remembers his 
mother singing Gaelic songs to both 
"Robin Adair" and " Gramachree. " 
They certainly have more of the Scotch 
than the Irish taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity 
of Inverness; so it could not be any 
intercourse with Ireland that could 
bring them ; — except, what I shrewd- 
ly suspect to be the case, the wander- 
ing minstrels, harpers, and pipers, 
used to go frequently errant through 
the wilds both of Scotland and Ireland, 
and so some favourite airs might be com- 
mon to both. A case in point — they have 
lately, in Ireland, published an Irish 
air, as they ^y, called ' * Caun du de- 
lish." The fact is, in a publication of 
Corri's a great while ago, you will find 
the same air, called a Highland one, 
with a Gaelic song set to it. Its name 
there, I think, is " Oran Gaoil," and a 
fine air it is. Do ask honest Allan, or 
the reverend Gaelic parson,* about 
these matters. 

R. B. 



No. XXIX. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

August 1793. 

My dear Sir, — " Let me in this ae 
■night " I will re-consider. I am glad 
that you are pleased with my song, 
" Had I a cave," &c., as I liked it my- 
self. 

I walked out yesterday evening, 
with a volume of the Museum in my 

* The Gaelic parson referred to was the 
Rev. Joseph Robertson Macgregor. 



hand; when, turning up "Allan 
Water," " What numbers shall the 
muse repeat," «S:c., as the words ap- 
peared to ne rather unworthy of so 
fine an air, and recollecting that it is 
on your list, I sat and raved under the 
shade of an old thorn, till I wrote one 
to suit the measure. [See ' ' By Allan 
stream," p. 255] I may be wrong; but 
I think it not in my worst style. You , 
must know, that in Ramsay's " Tea I 
Table," where the modern song first 
appeared, the ancient name of the 
tune, Allan says, is " Allan Water;" 
or, "My lov'e Annie's very bonny." 
This last has certainly been a line of 
the original song; so I took up the 
idea, and, as you will see, have intro- 
duced the line in its place, which, I 
presume, it formerly occupied; though 
I likewise give you a choosing line, if 
it should not hit the cut of your fancy. 

Bravo! say I: it is a good song. 
Should you think so too, (not else.) 
you can set the music to it, and let the 
other follow as English verses. 

Autumn is my propitious season. I 
make more verses in it than all the 
year else. — God bless you ! 

R. B. 



No. XXX. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

August 1 793. 

Is " Whistle, and I'll come to you, 
my lad," one of your airs? I admirer 
it much; and yesterday I set the fol- 
lowing verses to it. [See "Oh, whis- 
tle, and I'll come to you, my lad," p. 
255.] Urbani, whom I have met with 
here, begged them of me, as he ad- 
mires the air much; but, as I under- 
stand that he looks with rather an evil 
eye on your work, I did not choose to 
comply. However, if the song does 
not suit your taste, I may possibly 
send it him. The set of the air which 
I had m. my eye is in Johnson's Mu- 
seum. 

Another favourite air of mine is, 
" The muckin' o' Geordie's byre." 
When sung slow, with expression, 
I have wished that it had had bett<?| 



With (^ieorge thoxMSoN. 



m 



poetry: that I have endeavoured to 
supply, as follows. [See "Adown 
winding Nith," p. 256.] 

Mr. Clarke begs you to give Miss 
Phillis a corner in your book, as she is 
a particular flame of his. She is a 
Miss P. M., sister to "Bonny Jean." 
They are both pupils of his. You 
shall hear from me, the very first grist 
X get from my rhyming-mill. 

R. B. 



No. XXXI. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

August 1793. 

That tune, " Cauld Kail," is such a 
favourite of yours that I once more 
roved out yesterday for a gloamin- 
shot at the muses: when the muse that 
presides o'er the shores of Nith, or 
rather my old inspiring dearest nymph, 
Coila, whispered me the following. 
5" Come, let me take thee," p. 256.] 
t have two reasons for thinking that it 
was my early, sweet simple inspirer 
that was by my elbow, "smooth glid- 
ing without step," and pouring the 
Bong on my glowing fancy. In the 
first place, since I left.Coila's native 
haunts, not a fragment of a poet has 
arisen to cheer her solitary musings, 
by catching inspiration from her; so I 
more than suspect that she has follow- 
ed me hither, or at least makes me 
occasional visits: secondly, the last 
stanza of this song I send you is the 
very words that Coila taught me many 
years ago, and which I set to an 
old Scots reel in Johnson's Museum. 

If you think the above will suit your 
idea of your favourite air, I shall 
be highly pleased. "The last time 
I came o'er the moor" I cannot 
meddle with, as to mending it; and 
the musical world have been so long 
accustomed to Ramsay's words that 
a different song, though positively 
superior, would not be so well 
received. I am not fond of choruses 
to songs, so I have not made one for 
the foregoing. 

R. B. 



No. XXXII. 

BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

August 1793. 

So much for Davie. [See "Dainty 
Davie," p. 256, which the poet enclos- 
ed.] The chorus, you know, is to the 
low part of the tune. — See Clarke's set 
of it in the Museum. 

N. B. — In the Museum they have 
drawled out the tune to twelve lines of 
poetry, which is cursed nonsense. 
Four lines of song, and four of chorus, 
is the way. R. B. 



No. XXXTII. 

G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Sept. i, 1793. 

My dear Sir, — Since writing you 
last, I have received half a dozen 
songs, with which I am delighted 
beyond expression. The humour and 
fancy of "Whistle and I'll come to 
you, my lad," will render it nearly as 
great a favourite as "Duncan Gray." 
' ' Come, let me take thee to my 
breast," " Adown winding Nith," and 
"By Allan Stream," &c., are full 
of imagination and feeling, and sweet- 
ly suit the airs for which they are 
intended. " Had I a cave on some 
wild distant shore " is a striking and 
affecting composition. Our friend, to 
whose story it refers, read it with 
a swelling heart, I assure you. — The 
union we are now forming, I think, 
can never be broken: these songs of 
yours will descend with the music 
to the latest posterity, and will be 
fondly cherished so long as genius, 
taste, and sensibility exist in our island. 

While the muse seems so propitious, 
I think it right to enclose a list of all 
the favours I have to ask of her — no 
fewer than twenty and three I I have 
burdened the pleasant Peter with as 
many as it is probable he will attend 
to: most of the remaining airs would 
puzzle the English poet not a little; 
they are of that peculiar measure and 
rhythm, that they must be familiar to 
him who writes for them. 



63G 



COnitESPONBENCE OF BUHNS 



No. XXXIV. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793. 

TotJ may readily trust, my dear sir, 
tliat any exertion in my power is 
heartily at your service. Bat one 
thing I must hint to you; the very 
name of Peter Pindar is of great ser- 
vice to your publication, so get a verse 
from him now and tlien: though I 
have no objection, as well as I can, to 
bear the burden of the business. 

You know that my pretensions to 
musical taste are merely a few of 
nature's instincts, untaught and untu- 
tored by art. For this reason, many 
musical compositions, particularly 
where much of the merit lies in coun- 
terpoint, however they may transport 
and ravish the ears of you connois- 
seurs, affect my simple lug no other- 
wise than merely as melodious din. 
On the other hand, by way of amends, 
I am delighted with many little melo- 
dies which the learned musician de- 
spises as silly and insipid. 1 do not 
know whether the old air, " Hey, 
tiittie taitie," may rank among this 
number: but well I know that, with 
Fraser's hautboy, it has often filled my 
eyes with tears. There is a tradition, 
which I have met with in many places 
of Scotland, that it was Robert Brace's 
march at tlie battle of Bannockburn. 
This thought, in my solitary wander- 
ings, warmed me to a pitch of enthu- 
siasm on the theme of liberty and 
independence, which I threw into a 
kind of Scottish ode, ["Bruce's Address 
to liis Army at Bannockburn," p. 357] 
fitted to the air that one might suppose 
to be the gallant Royal Scot's address 
to his heroic followers on that eventful 
morning. 

So may God ever defend the cause 
of truth and liberty, as He did that 
day ! — Amen. 

P. 8. — I showed the air to Urbani, 
who was highly pleased with it, and 
begged me to make soft verses for it, 
but I had no idea of giving myself any 
trouble on the subject, till the acci- 
dental recollection of that glorious 
gtruggle for freedom, associated with 



the glowing ideas of some other strug- 
gles of the same nature, not quite so 
ancient, roused my rhyming mania. 
Clarke's set of the tune, with his liasi, 
you will find in the Museum ; though 
I am afraid that the air is not what will 
entitle it to a place in your elegant se- 
lection. 

R. B. 



No. XXXV. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793: 

I DARE say, my dear sir, that you 
will begin to think my correspondence 
is persecution. No matter, I can't 
help it; a ballad is my hobby-horse, 
which, though otherwise a simple sort 
of harmless idiotical beast enough, has 
yet this blessed headstrong property, 
that, when once it has fairly made off 
with a hapless wight, it gets so en- 
amoured with the tinkle-gingle, tin- 
kle-gingle of its own bells, that it is 
sure to run poor pilgarlick, the bed- 
lam jockey, quite beyond any useful 
point or post in the common race of 
man. 

The following song [" Behold the 
Hour," p. 232] I have composed for 
" Oran Gaoil," the Highland air that, 
you tell me in your last, you have re- 
solved to give a place to in your book. 
1 have this moment finished the song, 
so you have it glowing from the mint. 
If it suit you, well !— If not, 'tis also 
well. 

R. B. 



No. XXXVL 
G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Sept. 5, 1793. 

I BELIEVE it is generally allowed 
that the greatest modesty is the sure 
attendant of the greatest merit. While 
you are sending me verses that 
even Shakespeare might be proud to 
own, you speak of them as if they 
were ordinary productions ! Your 
heroic ode is, to me, the noblest com- 



WITH GEOUGE THOMSOIT. 



537 



position of the kind in the Scottish 
language. I happened to dine yester- 
day with a party of your friends, to 
whom I read it. They were all charm- 
ed with it, entreated me to find out a 
Buitable air for it, and reprobate the 
idea of giving it a tune so totally de- 
void of interest or grandeur as '* Hey, 
tuttie taitie." Assuredly your parti- 
ality for this tune must arise from the 
ideas associated in your mind by the 
tradition concerning it; for I never 
heard any person, and I have con- 
versed again and again with the great- 
est enthusiasts for Scottish airs — I 
say, I never heard any one speak of it 
as worthy of notice. 

I have been running over the whole 
hundred airs of which I lately sent you 
the list, and I think " Lewie Gordon" 
is the most happily adapted to your 
ode; at least with a very slight varia- 
tion of the fourth line, which I shall 
presently submit to you. There is in 
*' Lewie Gordon" more of the grand 
than the plaintive, particularly when 
it is sung with a degree of spirit 
which your words would oblige the 
singer to give it. I would have no 
scruple about substituting your ode in 
the room of " Lewie Gordon," which 
has neither the interest, the grandeur, 
nor the poetry that characterise your 
verses. Now the variation I have to 
suggest upon the last line of each 
Verse — the only line too short for the 
air — is as follows: — 

Verse 1st, Or to glorious victorie. 

2d, Chains — chains and slaverie. 
3d, Let him, let him turn and 

flee. 
4th, Let him 'bramly follow me. 
5th, But they shall, they shall 

be free. 
6th, Let us, let us do or die ! 

If you connect each line with its own 
verse, I do not think you will find that 
either the sentiment or the expression 
loses any of its energy. The only line 
which I dislike in the whole of the 
song is, " Welcome to your gory bed." 
Would not another word be prefer- 
able to ' ' welcome ?" In your next I 
l¥Ul expect t9 be informed whether 



you agree to what I have proposed. 
The little alterations I submit with the 
greatest deference. The beauty of the 
verses you have made for "Gran 
Gaoil" will insure celebrity to the air. 

G. T. 



No. xxxvn. j 

BURNS TO G. THOMSON. | 

September 1793. 

I HAVE received your list, my dear 
sir, and here go my observations on 
it. 

"Down the burn, Davie." I have 
this moment tried an alteration, leav- 
ing out the last half of the third stanza, 
and the first half of the last stanza 
thus: — 

As down the burn they took their way. 

And through the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 

And love was aye the tale. 
With '' Mary, when shall we return, 

Sic pleasure to renew ? " 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the bum. 

And aye shall follow you." 

" Through the wood, laddie." I am 
decidedly of opinion that both in this, 
and " There'll never be peace till 
Jamie comes hame," the second or 
liioh part of the tune being a repeti- 
tion of the first part an octave higher, 
is only for instrumental music, and 
would be much better omitted in sing- 
ing. 

** Cowdenknowes." Remember, in 
your index, that the song is pure Eng- 
lish to this tune, beginning — 

"When summer comes, the swains on Tweed," 

is the production of Crawford. Rob- 
ert was his Christian name. 

' ' Laddie, lie near me, " must lie by 
me for some time. I do not know the 
air; and, until I am complete master 
of a tune, in my own singing (such as 
it is,) I can never compose for it. My 
way is: I consider the poetic sentiment 
correspondent to my idea of the musi- 
cal expression ; then choose my theme ; 
begin one stanza — when that is com- 
posed, which is generally the most 
difficult part of the business, I walk 
out, sit dpwa iiQw and then, look out 



P38 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 



for objects in nature round me that 
are in unison or harmony with the 
cogitations of my fancy, and workings 
of my bosom; humming every now 
and then the air, with the verses I 
have framed. When I feel my muse 
beginning to jade, I retire to the soli- 
tary fireside of my study, and there 
commit my effusions to paper; swing- 
ing at intervals on the hind-legs of my 
elbow chair, by way of calling forth 
my own critical strictures, as my pen 
goes on. Seriously, this, at home, is 
almost invariably my way. 

What cursed egotism ! 

" Gil Morris" I am for leaving out. 
It is a plaguy length; the air itself is 
never sung, and its place can be well 
skupplied by one or two songs for fine 
tirs that are not in your list. For in- 
stance, " Craigieburn Wood," and 
"Roy's Wife." The first, beside its 
intrinsic merit, has novelty; and the 
last has high merit as well as great 
celebrity. I have the original words 
of a song for the last air, in the hand- 
writing of the lady who composed it: 
and they are superior to any edition 
of the song which the public has yet 
seen. 

"Highland laddie." The old set 
will please a mere Scotch ear best; 
and the new an Italianised one. There 
is a third, and, what Oswald calls, the 
old "Highland laddie," which pleases 
me more than either of them. It is 
sometimes called "Jinglan Johnnie;" 
it being the air of an old humorous 
tawdry song of that name. You will 
find it in the Museum, " I hae been at 
Crookieden," &c. I would advise you, 
in this musical quandary, to offer up 
your prayers to the muses for inspir- 
ing direction; and, in the meantime, 
waiting for his direction, bestow a 
libation to Bacchus; and there is no 
doubt but you will liit on a judicious 
choice, Probatum est. 

" Auld Sir Simon," I must beg you 
to leave out, and put in its place. "The 
Quaker's Wife." 

" Blithe hae I been o'er the hill," 
is one of the finest songs I ever made 
in my life; and, besides, is composed 
oa a 70ung lady, positively the most 



beautiful, lovely woman in the world. 
As I purpose giving you the names 
and designations of all my heroines, to 
appear in some future edition of your 
work, perhaps half a century hence, 
you must certainly include "The 
bonniest lass in a' the warld " in your 
collection. 

" Dainty Davie," I have heard sung 
nineteen thousand nine hundred and 
ninety-nine times, and always with the 
chorus to the low part of the tune; and 
nothing has surprised me so much as 
your opinion on this subject. If it 
will not suit, as I proposed, we will 
lay two of the stanzas together, and 
then make the chorus follow. 

"Fee him. Father," I enclose you 
Fraser's set of this tune when he plays 
it slow; in fact, he makes it the lan- 
guage of despair. I shall here give 
you two stanzas in that style, merely to 
try if it will be any improvement. [See 
the song " Thou hast left me ever," p. 
257]. Were it possible, in singing, to 
give it half the pathos which Fraser 
gives it in playing, it would make an 
admirably pathetic song, I do not give 
these verses for any merit they have. 
I composed them at the time in which 
" Patie Allan's mither died, that was, 
about the back o' midnight;" and by 
the lee-side of a bowl of punch, which 
had overset every mortal in com- 
pany, except the hautbois and the 
muse. 

"Jockey and Jenny" I would dis- 
card, and in its place would put 
" There's nae luck about the house," 
which has a very pleasant air; and 
which is positively the finest love-bal- 
lad in that style in the Scottish, or per- 1 
haps any other language. " When 
she cam ben she bobbet," as an air is 
more beautiful than either, and in tho 
andante way would unite with a charm- 
ing sentimental ballad. 

' ' Saw ye my Father ?" is one of my 
greatest favourites. The evening be- 
fore last I wandered out and began a 
tender song, in what I think is its na- 
tive style. I must premise that thfl 
old way, and the way to give most ef- 
fect, is to have no starting note, as 
the fiddlers call it, but to burst at onc« 



WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 



m 



into tlie pathos. Every country girl 
sings — " Saw ye my Father V" &c. 

My song is but just begun; and I 
should like, before I proceed, to know 
your opinion of it. I have sprinkled it 
with the Scottish dialect, but it may 
be easily turned into correct English. 

"Todlin' hame." Urbani mention- 
ed an idea of his, which has long been 
mine — that this air is highly suscep- 
tible of pathos: accordingly, you v/ill 
soon hear him at your concert try it to 
a song of mine in the Museum — "Ye 
banks and braes o' bonny Doon." One 
song more and I have done — " Auld 
langsyne." The air is but mediocre; 
but the following song, [" Auld lang- 
syne," p. 213] the old song of the old- 
en times, and which has never been in 
print, nor even in manuscript, until I 
took it down from an old man's sing- 
ing, is enough to recommend any air. 

Now, I suppose, I have tired your 
patience fairly. You must, after all is 
over, have a number of ballads, prop- 
erly so called. " Gil Morice," "Tran- 
ent Muir," "Macpherson's Farewell," 
"Battle of Sherriffmuir," or, "We 
ran and they ran," (I know the author 
of this charming ballad, and his his- 
tory,) " Hardiknute," "Barbara Al- 
lan," (I can furnish a finer set of this 
tune than any that has yet appeared ;) 
and besides do you know that I really 
have the old tune to which " The 
Cherry and the Slae"was sung; and 
which is mentioned as a well-known 
air in " Scotland's Complaint," a book 
published before poor Mary's days ? 
It was then called "The banks o' 
Helicon;" an old poem which Pinker- 
ton has brought to light. You will 
see all this in Tytler's history of Scot- 
tish music. The tune, to a learned ear, 
may have no great merit; but it is a 
great curiosity. I have a good many 
original things of this kind. 

R. B. 



No. xxxvni. 

BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

September 1793. 
I AM happy, my dear sir, that my 
©de pleases you so much. Your idea, 



" honour's bed," is, though a beauti- 
ful, a hackneyed idea; so, if you 
please, we will let the line stand as it 
is. I have altered the song as follows. 
[See "Scots wha hae," p. 257.] 

iV. B. — I have borrowed the last 
stanza from the common stall edition 
of Wallace: — 

" A false usurper sinks in every foe. 
And liberty returns with every blow." 

A couplet worthy of Homer. Yester- 
day you had enough of my correspon- 
dence. The post goes, and my head 
aches miserably One comfort — I 
suffer so much just now, in this world, 
for last night's joviality, that I shall 
escape scot-free for it in the world to 
come. Amen ! 

R. B. 



No. XXXIX. 
G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

September 12, 1793. 

A THOUSAND thanks to you, my 
dear sir, for your observations on the 
list of my songs. I am happy to find 
your ideas so much in unison with my 
own, respecting the generality of the 
airs, as well as the verses. About 
some of them we differ; but there is 
no disputing about hobby-horses. I 
shall not fail to profit by the remarlcs 
you make; and to Te-consider the 
whole with attention. 

"Dainty Davie" must be sung two 
stanzas together, and then the chorus; 
'tis the proper way. I agree with you 
that there may be something of 
pathos, or tenderness at least, in the 
air of "Fee him. Father," when per- 
formed with feeling; but a tender 
cast may .be given almost to any lively 
air, if you sing it very slowly, expres- 
sively, and with serious words. I am, 
however, clearly and invariably for re- 
taining the cheerful tunes joined to 
their own humorous verses, wherever 
the verses are passable. But the 
sweet song for "Fee him, Tither," 
which you began about the back of 
midnight, I will publish as an addi- 
tional one. Mr. James Balfour the 



t^40 



CORRESPONDENCE OP BURNS 



king of good fellows, and the best 
singer of tlii; lively Scottisli ballads 
that ever existed, has charmed thou- 
sands of companies with " Fee him, 
Father," and with " Todlin' hame" 
also, to. the old words, which never 
should be disunited from either of 
these airs. Some Bacchanals I would 
wish to discard. " Fye, let's a' to the 
bridal," for instance, is so coarse and 
vulgar that I think it fit only to be 
sung in a company of drunken colliers: 
and "Saw ye my Father" appears to 
me both indelicate and silly. 

One word more with regard to your 
heroic ode. I think, with great defer- 
ence to the poet, that a pru- 
dent general would avoid say- 
ing anything to his soldiers which 
might tend to make death more 
frightful than it is. ' ' Gory " presents 
a disagreeable image to the mind; and 
to tell them, ' ' Welcome to your gory 
bed," seems rather a discouraging ad- 
dress, notwithstanding the alternative 
'vhich follows. I have shown the 
song to three friends of excellent taste, 
and each of them objected to this line, 
which emboldens me to use the free- 
dom of bringing it again under your 
notice. I would suggest, 

**Now prepare for honour's bed, 
Or for glorious victorie." 

G. T. 



No. XL. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

'• Who shall decide when doctors 
disagree?" My ode pleases me so 
much that I cannot alter it. Your 
proposed alterations would, in my 
opinion, make it tame. I am exceed- 
ingly obliged to you for putting me on 
re-considering it; as I think I have 
much improved it. Instead of " soger! 
hero !" I will have it ' * Caledonian ! on 
wi' me !" 

I have scrutinised it over and over: 
and to the world, some way or other, 
it shall go as it is. At the same time, 
it will not in the least hurt me should 
you leave it out altogether, and adhere 



to your first intention of adopting Lo- 
gan's verses. 

I have finished my song to * ' Saw ye 
my Father;" and in English, as you 
will see. That there is a syllable too 
much for the expression of the air, it 
is true; but, allow me to say that the 
mere dividing of a dotted crotchet into 
a crotchet and a quaver is not a great 
matter: however, in that, I have no 
pretensions to cope in judgment with 
you. Of the poetry I speak with con- 
fidence; but the music is a business 
where I hint my ideas with the utmost 
diffidence. 

The o|d verses have merit, though 
unequal, and are popular: my advice 
is to set the air to the old words; and 
let mine follow a-s English verses. 
Here they are — [See "Fair Jenny," p. 
257.] 

Adieu, my dear sir! The post goes, 
so I shall defer some other remarks 
until more leisure. R. B. 



No. XLI. 

BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

I HAVE been turning over some 
volumes of songs to find verses whose 
measures would suit the airs for which 
you have allotted me to find English 
songs. 

For ' ' Muirland Willie," you have 
in Ramsay's " Tea-table Miscellany," 
an excellent song, beginning, "Ah, 
why those tears in Nelly's eyes ?" As 
for "The Collier's Dochter," take the 
following old Bacchanal. [See the song, 
" Deluded Swain, the Pleasure," p. 
258.] 

The faulty line in "Logan Water," 
I mend thus : — 

" How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ? " 

The song, otherwise, will pass. An 
to " M'Gregoira Rua-Ruth," you will 
see a song of mine to it, with a set of 
the air superior to yours in the Mu 
seum. The song begins — 

'' Raving winds around her blowing.'* 



WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 



541 



Your Irish airs are pretty, but they 
are downright Irish. If they were 
like the " Banlis of Banna," for in- 
stance, though really Irish, yet in the 
Scottish taste, you might adopt them. 
Since you are so fond of Irish music, 
what say you to twenty-five of them 
in an additional number? We could 
easily find this quantity of charming 
airs ; I will take care that you shall 
not want songs ; and I assure you that 
you will find it the most saleable of the 
whole. If you do not approve of 
'* Roy's wife," for the music's sake, 
we shall not insert it. " Deil tak the 
wars," is a charming song ; so is 
" Saw ye my Peggie ?" '* There's nae 
luck about the house" well deserves a 
place. I cannot say that ' ' O'er the 
hills and far awa," strikes me as equal 
to your selection. " This is no my 
ain house," is a great favourite air of 
mine ; and if you will send me your 
set of it, I will task my muse to her 
highest effort. What is your opinion 
of " I hae laid a herrin'in sawt?" I 
like it much. Your Jacobite airs are 
pretty : and there are many others of 
the same kind, pretty ; but you have 
not room for them. You cannot, I 
think, insert, " Fye, let's a' to the bri- 
dal " to any other words than its own. 

What pleases me as simple and 
naive disgusts you as ludicrous and 
low. For this reason, "Fye, gie me 
my coggie, sirs," " Fye, let's a' to the 
bridal," with several others of that 
cast, are, to me, highly pleasing ; 
while " Saw ye my father, or saw ye 
my mother?" delights me with \r < de- 
scriptive simple pathos. Thus my 
song, " Ken ye what Meg o' the Mill 
has gotten ?" pleases myself so much 
that I cannot try my hand at another 
song to the air, so I shall not attempt 
it. I know you will laugh at all this ; 
but " Ilka man wears his belt his ain 
gait." R. B. 



No. XLIl. 
BURNS TO*G. THOMSON. 

October 1793. 
I YoiJR last letter, my dear Thomson, 
iiWas indeed laden with heavy news. 



Alas ! poor Erskine !* The recollec- 
tion that he was a coadjutor in your 
publication has, till now, scared me 
from writing to you, or turning my 
thoughts on composing for you. 

1 am pleased that you are reconciled 
to the air of the ' ' Quaker's Wife ;" 
though, by the by, an old Highland 
gentleman and a deep antiquary, tells 
me it is a Gaelic air. and known by 
the name of " Leiger m' choss." The 
following verses [" My lovely Nancy," 
p. 222], I hope will please you, as an 
English song to the air. 

Your objection to the English song 
I proposed for " John Anderson, my 
jo,'" is certainly just. The following 
is by an old acquaintance of mine, and 
I think has merit. The song was 
never in print, which I think is so 
much in your favour. The more orig- 
inal good poetry your collection con- 
tains, it certainly has so much the 
more merit : — 

SONG. 
By Gavin Turnbull. 

"O CONDESCEND, dcaf charming maid, 

My wretched state to view ; 
A tender swain to love betray'd, 

And sad despair, by you. 

" While here, all melancholy. 

My passion I deplore. 
Yet urged by stern resistless fate, 

I love thee more and more. 

" I heard of love, and with disdain 

The urchin's pov/er denied ; 
I laugh'd at every lover's pain. 

And mock'd them when they sigh'd. 

" But how my state is alter'd ! 

Those happy days are o'er; 
For all thy unrelenting hate, 

I love thee more and more. 

" O yield, illustrious beauty, yield ! 

No longer let me mourn ; 
And, though victorious in the field. 

Thy captive do not scorn. 

" Let generous pity warm thee, 

My wonted peace restore ; 
And, grateful, I shall bless thee still, 

And love thee more and more." 

The following address of TurnbuH'a 
to the Nightingale will suit as an Eng 



* The Honourable A. Erskine, brother to 
Lord Kelly, whose melancholy death Mr. 
Thomson had communicated in an excelloat 
letter which he has suppressed.— CuRRiB. 



CORRESPONDENCE OP BURNS 



lisli song to the air, " There was a lass 
and she was fair. " By the by, Turn- 
bull has a great many songs in MS. , 
which I can command, if you like his 
manner. Possibly, as he is an old 
friend of mine, I may be prejudiced 
in his favour ; but I like some of his 
pieces very much : — 

THE NIGHTINGALE. 
By G. Turnbull. 

" Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove 
That ever tried the plaintive strain ; 

Awake thy tender tale of love, 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 

" For, though the muses deign to aid, 
And teach him smoothly to complain, 

Vet, Delia, charming, cruel maid, 
Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 

"All day, with Fashion's gaudy sons. 
In sport she wanders o'er the plain ; 

Their tales approves, and still she shuns 
The notes of her forsaken swain. 

" When evening shades obscure the sky, 
And bring the solemn hours again. 

Begin, sweet bird, thy melody, 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain." 

I shall just transcribe another of 
Turnbull's, which would go charming- 
ly to " Lewie Gordon : — 

LAURA. 
By G. Turnbull. 



" Let me wander where I will, 
By shady wood, or winding rill ; 
Where the sweetest May-born flowers 
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers ; 
Where the linnet's early song 
Echoes sweet the woods among ; 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 

" If at rosy dawn I choose 
To indulge the smiling muse ; 
If I court some cool retreat. 
To avoid the noontide heat ; 
If beneath the moon's pale ray, 
Through unfrequented wilds I stray; 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 

'' When at night the drowsy god 
Waves his sleep-compelling rod, 
And to fancy's wakeful eyes 
Bids celestial visions rise ; 
While with boundless joy I rove 
Through the fairy land of love : 
Let me wander where I will. 



Laura haunts my fancy still 



The rest of your letter I shall answer 
at some other opportunity. 
[(jraviii Tumbull was *the author of 



a volume entitled "Poetical Essays/ 
published in Glasgow in 1788.] 



No. XLIII. 
G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Nov. 7, i79> 

My good Sir, — After so long a si- 
lence it gave me peculiar pleasure ta 
recognise your well-known hand, for I 
had begun to be apprehensive that all 
was not well with you. I am happy 
to find, however, that your silence did 
not proceed from that cause, and that 
you have got among the ballads once 
more. 

I have to thank you for your English 
song to " Leiger m' choss," which I 
think extremely good, although the 
colouring is warm. Your friend Mr. 
Turnbull's songs have doubtless con- 
siderable merit; and, as you have the 
command of his manuscripts, I hope 
you may find out some that will answer 
as English songs, to the airs yet un- 
provided. G. T. 



No. XLIV. 

BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Dec. 1793. 

Tell me how you like the following 
verses ["My spouse, Nancy," p. 258] 
to the tune of "Jo Janet." 



No. XLV. 

G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Aprili7, 1794. 

My dear Sir, — Owing to the dis- 
tress of our friend for the loss of his 
child, at the time of his receiving your 
admirable but melancholy letter, I had 
not an opportunity till lately of perus- 
ing it.* How sorry I am to find Burns 
saying, ' ' Canst thou not minister to a 
mind diseased?" while he is delight- 
ing others from one end of the island 

* A letter to Mr. Cunningham, to be found 
in the correspondence, under the date of Feb, 
25, 1794. 



WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 



543 



to the other. Like the hypochondriac 
who went to consult a physician upon 
bis case — " Go," says the doctor, *' and 
see the famous Carlini, who keeps all 
Paris in good humor." "Alas! sir," 
replied the patient, "I am that un- 
happy Carlini." 

Your plan for our meeting to- 
gether pleases me greatly, and 1 trust 
that by some means or other it will 
soon take place ; but your Bacchana- 
lian challenge almost frightens me, for 
I am a miserably weak drinker ! 

Allan is much gratified by your good 
opinion of his talents. He has just be- 
gun a sketch from your ' ' Cotter's Sat- 
urday Night," and if it pleases him- 
self in the design, he will probably 
etch or engrave it. In subjects of the 
pastoral or humorous kind, he is per- 
haps unrivalled by any artist living. 
He fails a little in giving beauty and 
grace to his females, and his colouring 
is sombre; otherwise, his paintings aad 
drawings would be in greater request. 

I like the music of the *•' tutor's 
dochter," and will consider whether it 
shall be added to the last volume; your 
verses to it are pretty; but your hu- 
morous English song to suit "Jo 
Janet," is inimitable. What think you 
of the air, " Within a mile of Edin- 
burgh ?" It has always struck me as 
a modern English imitation, but it is 
said to be Oswald's, and is so much 
liked that I believe I must include it. 
The verses are little better than nam- 
by-pamby. Do you consider it worth 
a stanza or two? 

G. T. 



No. XLVI. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

May 1794. 

My dear Sir,— I return you the 
plates, with which I am highly pleased; 
1 I would humbly propose, instead of 
the younker knitting stockings, to put 
a stock and horn into his hands. A 
frieijd of mine, who is positively the 
ablest judge on the subject I have ever 
met with, and, though an unknown, is 
j^i a superior^ artist with th^ burin, 13 



quite charmed with Allan's manner. I 
got him a peep of the Gentle Shepherd; 
and he pronounces Allan a most origi- 
nal artist of great excellence. 

For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's 
choosing my favourite poem for his 
subject to be one of the highest com- 
pliments I have ever received. 

I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being 
cooped up in France, as it will put an 
entire stop to our work. Now, and 
for six or seven months, I shall be 
quite in song, as you shall see by and 
by. I got an air, pretty enough, com- 
posed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of 
Heron, which she calls " The banks of 
Cree." Cree is a beautiful romantic 
stream: and, as her ladyship is a par- 
ticular friend of mine, I have written 
the following soug to it — [See "Here 
is the Glen," p. 263.] 



No. XLVH. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

July 1794. 

Is there yet no news of Pleyel ? Or 
is your work to be at a dead stop until 
the allies set our modern Orpheus at 
liberty from the savage thraldom o£ 
democratic discords ? Alas the day ! 
And woe is me ! That auspicious 
period, pregnant with the happiness 
of millions — * 



No. XLVIII. 

G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Aug. 10, 1794. 

My dear Sir, — I owe you an apol- 
ogy for having so long delayed to ac- 
knowledge the favour of your last. 
I fear it will be as you say, I shall 
have no more songs from Pleyel till 
France and we aje friends; but, never- 
theless, I am very desirous to be pre- 
pared with the poetry, and, as the sea- 
son approaches in which your muse of 
Coila visits you, I trust I shall, as for- 



* A portion of this letter has been left out, 
for reasons that will be easily imagined? 



544 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 



merly, be frequently gratified with the 
result of your amorous and tender in- 
terviews 1 

e. T. 



No. XLIX. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Aug. 30, 1794. 

The last evening, as I was straying 
out, and thinking of "O'er the hills 
and far away," I spun the following 
stanza for it, [see "On the Seas and 
Far Away," p. 263;] but whether my 
spinning will deserve to be laid up in 
store, like the precious thread of the 
silk- worm, or brushed to the devil like 
the vile manufacture of the spider, I 
leave, my dear sir, to your usual can- 
did criticism. I was pleased with sev- 
eral lines in it, at first; but I own that 
now it appears rather a flimsy busi- 
ness. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I 
see whether it be worth a critique. 
We have many sailor songs; but, as 
far as I at present recollect, they are 
mostly the effusions of the jovial 
sailor, not the wailings of the lovelorn 
mistress. I must here make one 
sweet exception — "Sweet Annie frae 
the Sea-beach came." 

I gave you leave to abuse this song, 
but do it in the spirit of Christian 
meekness. 

R. B. 



No. L. 

G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Sept. 16, 1794. 

My dear Sir, — You have anticipat- 
tjd my opinion of "On the seas and 
far away;" I do not think it one of your 
very happy productions, though it cer- 
tainly contains stanzas that are worthy 
of all acceptation. 

The second stanza is the least to my 
liking, particularly " Bullets, spare 
my only joy." Confound the bullets ! 
It might, perhaps, be objected to the 
third verse, " At the starless mid- 
Bight hour/' Xh9,% it Jia§ top wugh 



grandeur of imagery, and that greater 
simplicity of thought would have bet- 
ter suited the character of a sailor's 
sweetheart. The tune, it must be re- 
membered, is of the brisk, cheerful 
kind. Upon the whole, therefore, in 
my humble opinion, the song would ba 
better adapted to tlie tune, if it con- 
sisted only of the first and last verses, 
with the choruses. 



No. LI. 



BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1794. 

I SHALL withdraw my " On the seas 
and faraway" altogether: it is unequal, 
and unworthy the work. Making a 
poem is like begetting a son: you can- 
not know whether you have a wise 
man or a fool, until you produce him 
to the world to try him. 

For that reason I send you the off- 
spring of my brain, abortions and all; 
and as such, pray look over them and 
forgive them, and burn them. I am 
flattered at your adopting " Ca' the 
yowes to the knowes," as it was owing 
to me that it ever saw the light. 
About seven years ago, I was well ac- 
quainted with a Avorthy little fellow 
of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who 
sung it charmingly: and, at my re- 
quest, Mr. Clarke took it down from his 
singing. When I gave it to Johnson, 
I added some stanzas to the song, and 
mended others, but still it will not do 
for you. In a solitary stroll, which I 
took to-day, I tried my hand on a few 
pastoral lines, following up the idea of 
the chorus, v/hich I would preserve. 
Here it is, with all its crudities and 
imperfections on its head. [See " Ca* 
the Yowes," p. 263.] .; 

I shall give you my opinion of youi 
other newly adopted songs, my first 
scribbling fi't. R. B. | 



No. LII. i 

BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1794. 
Do you know a blackguard Irish song, 
galled " Oua^h's waterf?ill V TJie ^ 



WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 



646 



is charming, and I have often regret- 
ted the want of decent verses to it. It 
is too much, at least for my humble 
rustic muse, to expect that every effoit 
of hers shall have merit: still I think 
that it is better to have mediocre ver- 
ses to a favourite air than none at all. 
On this principle I have all along pro- 
ceeded in the Scots Musical Museum; 
and, as that publication is at its last 
volume, I intend the following song, 
[" She says she lo'es me best of a'," p. 
263] to the air above mentioned, for 
that work. 

If it does not suit you as an editor, 
you may be pleased to have verses to 
it that you can sing before ladies. 

Not to compare small things with 
great, my taste in music is like the 
mighty Frederick of Prussia's taste in 
paintjng: we are told that he frequent- 
ly admired what the connoisseurs de- 
cried, and always, without any hypocri- 
sy , confessed his admiration. I am sensi- 
ble that my taste in music must be in- 
elegant and vulgar, because people of 
undisputed and cultivated taste can 
find no m.erit in my favourite tunes. 
Still, because I am cheaply pleased, is 
that any reason why I should deny my- 
self that pleasure? Many of our 
strathspeys, ancient and modern, give 
me most exquisite enjoyment, where 
you and other judges would probably 
be showing disgust. For instance, I 
am just now making verses for 
*' Rothemurche's Rant," an air which 
puts me in raptures; and, in fact, un- 
less I be pleased with the tune I never 
can make verses to it. Here I have 
Clarke on my side, who is a judge that 
I will pit against any of you. 
"Rothemurche," he says, is an air 
both original and beautiful; and, on 
his recommendation, I have taken the 
I first part of the tune for a chorus, and 
) the fourth, or last part, for the song. 
I am but two stanzas deep in the work, 
and possibly you may think, and just- 
ly, tliat the poetry is as little worth 
your attention as the music. 

I have begun anew, " Let me in this 

ae night." Do you think we ought to 

retain the old chorus ? I think we 

: wust retail Wth the old chorus and 



the first stanza of the old song. I dn 
not altogether like the third line of the 
first stanza, but cannot alter it to please 
myself. I am just three stanzas deep 
in it. Would you have the denone- 
ment to be successful or otherwise? 
Should she " let him " in or not? 

Did you not once propose " The 
Sow's tail to Geordie " as an air for 
your work ? I am quite delighted with 
it; but I acknowledge that is no mark 
of its real excellence. I once set about 
verses for it, which I meant to be in 
the alternate way of a lover and his 
mistress chanting together. I have not 
the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Thom- 
son's Christian name, and yours, I am 
afraid, is rather burlesque for senti- 
ment, else 1 had meant to have made 
you and her the hero and heroine of 
the little piece. 

God grant you patience with this 
stupid epistle ? 

R. B. 



No. LIII. 



G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

I PERCEIVE the sprightly muse is 
now attendant upon her favourite poet, 
whose ^' wood notes wild " are become 
as enchantingas ever. " She says she 
lo'es me best- of a'," is one of the 
pleasanteet table songs I have seen, 
and henceforth shall be mine when 
the song is going round. I'll give 
Cunningham a copy; he can more 
powerfully proclaim its merit. 1 am 
far from undervaluing your taste for 
the strathspey music; on the contrary, 
1 think it highly animating and agree- 
able, and that some of the strathspeys, 
when graced with such verses as yours, 
will make very pleasing songs, in the 
same way that rough Christians are 
tempered and softened by lovely 
women, without whom, you know, 
they had been brutes. 

I am clear for "having the " Sow's 
tail. ' particularly as j'our proposed 
verses to it are so extremely promising. 
Geordie, as you observe, is a name 
only fit for burlesque composition. 
Mrs. Thomson's name (Katharine,) i.^ 
OQt at all poetical. Retain Jeanie, 



546 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 



therefore, and make the other Jamie, 
or any other that sounds agreeably. 

Your " Ca' the ewes " is a precious 
little morgeau. Indeed, I am perfect- 
ly astonished and charmed with the 
endless variety of your fancy. Here 
let me ask you whether you never se- 
riously turned your thoughts upon 
dramatic writing? That is a field 
worthy of your genius, in which it 
might shine forth in all its splendour. 
One or two successful pieces upon the 
London stage would make your for 
tune. The rage at present is for 
musical dramas: few or none of those 
which have appeared since the "Du- 
enna" possess much poetical merit: 
there is little in the conduct of the 
fable, or in the dialogue, to interest 
the audience. They are chiefly ve- 
hicles for music and pageantry. I 
think you might produce a comic opera 
in three acts, which would live by the 
poetry, at the same time that it would 
be proper to take every assistance 
from her tuneful sister. Part of the 
songs, of course, would be to our 
favourite- Scottish airs; the rest might 
be left to the London composer — Sto- 
race for Drury Lane, or Shield for 
Covent Garden ; both of them very 
able and popular musicians. I believe 
that interest and manceuvring are often 
necessary to have a drama brought on: 
so it may be with th-^ namby-pamby 
tribe of flowery scribblers; but were 
you to address Mr. Sheridan himself 
by letter, and send him a dramatic 
piece, I am persuaded he would, for 
the ho.nour of genius, give it a fair and 
«andid trial. Excuse me for obtruding 
these hints upon your consideration. 



No. LIV. 
G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Oct. 14, 1794. 
The last eight days have been de- 
voted to the re-examination of the 
Scottish collections. I have read, and 
sung, and fiddled, and considered, till 
I am half blind and wholly stupid. 
The few air§ I have added are en- 



Peter Pindar has at length sent mo 
all the songs I expected from him, 
which are, in general, elegant and 
beautiful. Have you heard of a 
London collection of Scottish aira 
and songs just published, by Mr. 
Ritson, an Englishman ? I shall 
send you a copy. His introductory 
essay on the subject is curious, and 
evinces great reading and research, but 
does not decide the question as to the 
origin of our melodies; though he 
shows clearly that Mr. Tytler, in his 
ingenious diissertation, has adduced no 
sort of proof of the hypothesis he 
wished to establish ; and that his clas- 
sification of the airs according to the 
eras when they were composed is mera 
fancy and conjecture. On John Pink, 
erton, Esq., he has no mercy; but con- 
signs him to damnation! He snarls at 
my publication on the score of Pindai 
being engaged to write songs for it, 
uncandidly and unjustly leaving it to 
be inferred that the songs of Scottish 
writers had been sent a packing to 
make room for Peter's. Of you he 
speaks with some respect, but gives 
you a passing hit or two for daring to| 
dress up a little some old foolish son£ 
for the Museum. His sets of the Scot ' 
tish airs are taken, he says, from ih.Qi 
oldest collections and best authorities/ 
Many of them, however, have such 
strange aspect, and are so unlike the 
sets which are sung by every person 
of taste, old or young, in town or coun* 
try, that we can scarcely recognise the 
features of our favourites. 33y going 
to the oldest collections of our music,; 
it does not follow that we find the melo- 
dies in their original state. These 
melodies had been preserved, we know 
not how long, by oral communication, 
before being collected and printed: and, 
as different persons sing the same ail 
very differently, according to their ac- 
curate or confused recollection of it, so, 
even supposing the first collectors to 
have possessed the industry, the taste, 
and discernment to choose the best 
they could hear, (which is far from 
certain,) still it must evidently be a 
chance whether the collections exhibit 
an^ of the uielQ4ie§ in t^e state th^y 



WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 



647 



were first composed. In selecting tlie 
melodies for my own collection, I Lave 
been as much guided by the living as 
by the dead. Where these diifered, I 
preferred the sets that appeared to me 
the most simple and beautiful, and the 
most generally approved: and without 
meaning any compliment to my own 
capability of choosing, or speaking of 
the pains I have taken, I flatter myself 
that my sets will be found equally freed 
from vulgar errors on the one hand, 
and affected graces on the other. 

G. T. 



No. LV. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Oct. 19, 1794. 

My dear Friend — By this morn- 
ing's post I have your list, and, in gen- 
eral, I highly aj^prove of it. I shall, 
lit more leisure, give you a critique on 
the whole. Clarke goes to your town 
by to-day's fly, and I wish you would 
call on him and take his opinion in 
general: you know his taste is a stand- 
ard. He will return here again in a 
week or two; so, please do not miss 
asking for him. One thing I hope he 
will do, persuade you to adopt my fav- 
orite, " Craigie-burn Wood," in your 
selection ; it is as great a favorite of his 
as of mine. The lady on whom it was 
made is one of the finest women in 
Scotland; and, in fact, entre nous, is 
in a manner, to me, what Sterne's 
Eliza was to him — a mistress, or friend, 
I or what you will, in the guileless sim- 
plicity of Platonic love. (Now don't 
I put any of your squinting constructions 
on this, or have any clislimaclaver 
about it among our acquaintances.) I 
assure you that to my lovely friend 
you are indebted for many of your best 
songs of mine. Do you think that the 
sober, gin-hjrse routine of existence 
could inspiNs a man with life, and 
love, and joy — could fire him with en- 
thusiasm, or melt him with pathos 
equal to the genius of your book ? — 
No ! no ! — Whenever I want to be 
more than ordinary in song ; to be in 
©ome degree equal to your (fiviner airs; 



do you imagine I fast and pray for the 
celestial emanation? I'vut au contrui- 
re ! I have a glorious recipe ; the 
very one that for liis own use was in- 
vented by the divinity of healing and 
poetry, when erst he piped to the 
flocks of Admetus. I put myself on a 
regimen of. admiring a fine woman; 
and in proportion to the adorability of 
her charms, in proportion you are de- 
lighted with my verses. The light- 
ning of her eye is the godhead of Par- 
nassus, and the witchery of her smile 
the divinity of Helicon ! 

To descend to business; if you like 
my idea of ' ' When she cam ben she 
bobbit," the following stanzas of mine, 
[" Saw ye my Pliely," p. 265], altered 
a little from what they were formerly, 
wheij set to another air, may perhaps 
do instead of worse stanzas. 

Now for a few miscellaneous re- 
marks. " The Posie " (in the Museum) 
is my composition ; the air was taken 
down from Mrs. Burns' voice. It ia 
well known in the west country, but 
the old words are trash. By the by, 
take a look at the tune again, and tell 
me if you do not think it is the original 
from which " Roslin Castle" is com- 
posed. The second part, in particular, 
for the first two or three bars, is ex 
actly the old air. " Strathallaii's La- 
ment" is mine: the music is by our 
right trusty and deservedly well-be- 
loved Allan Masterton. "Donocht- 
Head" is not mine: I would give ten 
pounds it were. It appeared first iii 
the Edinburgh Herald ; and came to 
the editor of that paper with the New- 
castle post-mark on it.* " Whistle 
o'er the lave o'f'is mine: the musia 
said to be by a John Bruce, acelebrateci 
violin player in Dumfries, about thfi 
beginning of this century. This I 
know, Bruce, who was an honest mao, 
though a red-wud Highlandman, con- 
stantly claimed it ; and by all the old 
musical people here, is believed to be 
the author of it. 

" Andrew and his cutty gun." The 



* " Donocht-Head," which the poet praises 
so highly, was written \yy «, gentleman, now 
dead, of the name of Pickering, who lived at 
Newcastle. 



648 



CX)RRESPOm)ENCE OF BURNS 



song to wliicli this is set in the Museum 
is mine, and was composed on iNIiss 
Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, com- 
monly and deservedly called the 
Flower of Strathmore. 

" How long and dreary is the night." 
I met with some such words in a col- 
lection of songs somewhere, which I 
•altered and enlarged; and, to please 
you, and to 'suit your favourite air, I 
have taken a stride or two across my 
room, and have arranged it anew, as 
you will find on the other page — [See 
"Howlang and dreary is the night," 
p. 265.] 

Tell me how you like this. I differ 
from your idea of the expression of 
the tune. There is, to me, a great 
deal of tenderness in it. You cannot, 
in my opinion, dispense with a bass to 
your addenda airs. A lady of my ac- 
quaintance, a noted performer, plays 
and sings at the same time so charm- 
ingly that I shall never bear to see any 
of her songs sent into the world, as 
naked as Mr. What - d'ye - call - um 
(Ritson) has done in his London col- 
lection. 

These English songs gravel me to 
death. I have not that command of 
the language that I have of my native 
tongue. I have been at ' ' Duncan 
Gray," to dress it in English, but all 
I can do is deplorably stupid. For 
instance — [See " Let not woman e'er 
complain," p. 266.] 

Since the above, I have been out in 
the country taking a dinner with a 
friend, where I met with the lady 
whom I mentioned in the second page 
of this odds-and-ends of a- letter. As 
usual, I got into song; and. returning 
home I composed the following — 
[" The Lover's Morning Salute to his 
Mistress," p. 264] 

If you honour my verses by setting 
the air to them, I will vamp up the 
old song, and make it English enough 
to be understood. 

I enclose you a musical curiosity, an 
East Indian air, which you would 
swear was a Scottish one. I know the 
authenticity of it, as the gentleman 
who brought it over is a particular 
accpiAJntanr^ of miQ«. Do preserve me 



the copy I send you, as it is the only 
one i have. Clarke has set a bass to 
it, and I intend to put it into the 
Musical Museum. Here follow the 
verses I intend for it — 

THE AULD MAN. 

But lately seen in gladsome green 

The woods rejoiced the day. 
Thro' gentle showers the laughinf flowOff 

In double pride were gay ; 
But now our joys are fled. 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 
But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or beild. 

Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
Oh, age has weary days, 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youtnfu' prime, 
Why comest thou not again ' 

I would be obliged to you if you 
would procure me a sight of Ritson's 
collection of English songs, which you 
mention in your letter. I will thank 
you for another information, and that 
as speedily as you please — whether 
this miserable drawling hotch-potch 
epistle has not completely tired you 
of my correspondence ? 

R. B. 



No. LVI. 
G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Oct 27, 1794. 

I AM sensible, my dear friend, that 
a genuine poet can no more exist with- 
out his mistress than his meat. I 
wish I knew the adorable she, whose 
bright eyes and witching smiles have so 
often enrantfti:t''d the Scottish bard, that 
I might drinK her sweet health when 
the toast is going round. " Craigie- 
burn Wood" must certainly be adopt- 
ed )n\,o my family, since slie is the ob- 
IbCu of the song; but, in the name of 
decency, I must beg a new chorus 
verse from you. "Oh to be lying be- 
yond the«, dearie," is perhaps, a con- 
summation to be wished, but will not 
do for singing in the company of ladies. 
The songs in your last will do you 
lasting credit, and suit the respective 
airs charmingly. .1 am perfectlj of 



WITH GEORGE THOMSOJT. 



54!> 



your opinion with respect to the ad- 
ditional airs: tlie idea of sending them 
into the world naked as they were 
born was ungenerous. They must all 
be clothed and made decent by our 
friend Clarke. 

I find I am anticipated by the friend- 
ly Cunningham in sending you Rit- 
son's Scottish Collection. Permit me, 
therefore, to present you with his 
English Collection, which you will re- 
ceive by the coach. I do not find his 
historical Essay on Scottish song in- 
teresting. Your anecdotes and mis- 
cellaneous remarks will, I am sure, be 
piuch more so. Allan has just sketch- 
ed a charming design from " Maggie 
Lauder." She is dancing with such 
spirit as to electrify the piper, who 
Beems almost dancing too, while he is 

Flaying with the most exquisite glee, 
am much inclined to get a small 
copy, and to have it engraved in the 
style of Ritson's prints. 

P. 8. — Pray what do your anecdotes 
Bay concerning "Maggie Lauder?" 
Was she a real personage, and of what 
rank ? You would surely ' ' spier for 
her if you ca'd at Anstruther town." 

G. T. 



JSTo. LVII. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Nov. 1794. 
Maky thanks to you, my dear sir, 
for your present : it is a book of the 
utmost importance to me. I have 
yesterday begun my anecdotes, &c., 
for your work, I intend drawing 
them up in the form of a letter to you, 
which will save me from the tedious 
dull business of systematic arrange- 
ment. Indeed, as all I have to say 
consists in unconnected remarks, anec- 
dotes, scraps of old songs, &c., it 
would be impossible to give the work 
a beginning, a middle, and an end, 
which the critics insist to be absolute- 
ly necessary in a work. In my last I 
told you my objections to the song you 
had selected for "My lodging is onthe 
cold ground." On my visit, the other 
day, to my fair Chloris (that is the 



poetic name of the lovely godaess of 
my inspiration), she suggested an idea, 
which I, on my return from the visit, 
wrought into the following song — « 
["Chloris," p. 264.] 

How do you like the simplicity and 
tenderness of this pastoral ? — I think it 
pretty well. 

I like you for entering so candidly 
and so kindly into the story of ma 
chere amie. I assure you I was never 
more in earnest in my life than in the 
account of that affair which I sent you 
in my last. Conjugal love is a passion 
which I deeply feel, and highly ven- 
erate ; but somehow it does not make 
such a figure in poesy as that other 
species of the passion, 

" Where Love is liberty, and Nature law." 
Musically speaking, the first is an in- 
strument of which the gamut is scanty 
and confined, but the tones inexpressi- 
bly sweet ; while the last has powers 
equal to all the intellectual modulations 
of the human soul. Still, I am a very 
poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. 
The welfare and happiness of the belov- 
ed object is the first and inviolate senti- 
ment that pervades my soul ; and what- 
ever pleasure I might wish for, of 
whatever might be the raptures they 
would give me, yet, if they interfere 
with that first principle, it is having 
these pleasures at a dishonest price; 
and justice forbids, and generosity dis- 
dains the purchase. 

Despairing of my own powers to 
give you variety enough in English 
songs, I have been turning over old 
collections, to pick out songs, of 
which the measure is something simi- 
lar to what I want; and, with a little 
alteration, so as to suit the rhythm of 
the air exactly, to give you them for 
your work. Where the songS have 
hitherto been but little noticed, nor 
have ever been set to music, I think 
the shift a fair one. A song, which, 
under the same first verse, you will 
find in Ramsay's "Tea-table Miscel- 
lany," I have cut down for an English 
dress to your " Daintie Davie," as fol- 
lows — [See "The charming month of 
May, " p. 266.] 

You may think meanly of this, but 



650 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 



take a look at the. bombast original, 
and you will be surprised that I have 
made so much of it. I have finished 
my sOng to " Rothemurche's Rant;" 
and you have Clarke to consult, as to 
the set of the air for singing— [" Las- 
sie wi'the lint- white locks," p. 266.] 

This piece has at least the merit of 
being a regular pastoral: the vernal 
morn, the summer noon, the autumnal 
evening, and the winter night, are 
regularly rounded. If you like it, 
well: if not, 1 will insert it in the Mu- 
seum. R. B. 



No. LVIII. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 
I AM out of temper that you should 
set so sweet, so tender an air as " Deil 
tak the Wars," to the foolish old 
verses. You talk of the silliness of 
" Saw ye my father;" by heavens, 
the odds is gold to brass ! Beside° ^^^'^ 
old song, though now pretty well moa- 
ernised into the Scottish language, is 
originally, and in the early editions, a 
bungling low imitation of the Scottish 
manner, by that genius, Tom D'Urfey; 
so has no pretensions to be a Scottish 
production: There is a pretty English 
song, by Sheridan, in the " Duenna," 
to this air, which is out of sight supe- 
rior to D'Urfey's. It begins— 
"When sable night each drooping plant 

restoring." 
The air, if I understand the expression 
of it properly, is the very native lan- 
guage of simplicity, tenderness, 
and love. 

Now for my English song to " Nan- 
cy's to the Greenwood," &c. — [See 
*' Farewell, thou stream," p. 267.] 

There is an air, " The Caledonian 
Hunt's Delight," to which I wrote a 
song that you will find in Johnston, — 
•' Ye banks and braes o' Bonnie Doon;" 
this air, I think, might find a place 
among your hundred, as Lear says of 
his nights. Do you know the history 
of the air ? It is curious enough. A 
good many years ago, Mr. James Mil- 
ler, writer in your good town, — a gen- 
tleman whom possibly, you know, — 
was in company with our friend 



Clarke; and talking of Scottish music. 
Miller expressed an ardent ambition to 
be able to compose a Scots air. Mr. 
Clarke, partly by way of joke, told 
him to keep to the black keys of the 
harpsichord, and preserve some kind 
of rhythm, and he would infallibly 
compose a Scots air. Certain it is, 
that in a few days Mr. Miller produced 
the rudiments of an air, which Mr. 
Clarke, with some touches and correc- 
tions, fashioned into the tune in ques- 
tion. Ritson, you know, has the same 
story of the black keys; but this ac- 
count which I have just given you, 
Mr. Clarke informed me of several 
years ago. Now, to show you how 
difl&cult it is to trace the origin of our 
airs, I have heard it repeatedly asserted 
that this was an Irish air; — nay, I met 
with an Irish gentleman wlio affirmed 
he had heard it in Ireland among tha 
old women; while, on the other hand, 
a countess informed me that the first 
person who introduced the air into 
this country was a baronet's lady of 
her acquaintance, who took down the 
notes from an itinerant piper in the 
Isle of Man. How difficult then to as- 
certain the truth respecting our poesy 
and music ! I, myself, have lately 
seen a couple of ballads sung through 
the streets of Dumfries, with my name 
at the head of them as the author, 
though it was the first time I had ever 
seen them. 

I thank you for admitting ' ' Craigie- 
burn Wood," and I shall take care to 
furnish you with a new chorus. In 
fact, the chorus was not my work, but 
a part of some old verses to the air. If 
I can catch myself in a more than ordi- 
nary propitious moment, I shall write 
a new ' ' Craigie-burn Wood " alto- 
gether. My heart is much in the 
theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to 
make the request; 'tis dunning your 
generosity; but in a moment when I 
had forgotten whether I was rich or 
poor, I promised Chloris a copy of 
your songs. It wrings my honest 
pride to write you this; but an ungra- 
cious request is doubly so by a tedious 
] apology. To make you some amends, 



WITH GEORGE THOMSOTf. 



551 



as soon as I have extracted the neces- 
sary information out of them, I will 
return you Ritson's volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that 
she is to make so distinguished a fig- 
ure in your collection, and 1 am not a 
little proud that I have it in my power 
to please her so much. Lucky it is 
for your patience that my paper is 
done, for when I am in a scribbling 
humour, I know not when to give 
over. R. B. 



No. LIX. 

G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Nov. 15, 1794. 

My good Sir, — Since receiving 
your last, I have had another inter- 
view with Mr. Clarke and a long 
consultation. He thinks the "Cale- 
donian Hunt" is more Bacchanalian 
than amorous in its nature, and recom- 
mends it to you to match the air ac- 
cordingly. Pray, did it ever occur to 
you how peculiarly well the Scottish 
airs are adapted for verses in the form 
of a dialogue ? The first part of the 
air is generally low, and suited for a 
man's voice, and the second part, in 
many instances, cannot be sung at con- 
cert pitch, but by a female voice. A 
song, thus performed, makes an agree- 
able variety, but few of ours are writ- 
ten in this form : I wish you would 
think of it in some of those that re- 
main. The only one of the kind you 
have sent me is admirable, and will be 
a universal favourite. 

Your verses for ' ' Rothemurche " 
are so sweetly pastoral, and your sere- 
nade to Cliloris, for ' ' Deil tak the 
"Wars," so passionately tender, that I 
have sung myself into raptures with 
them. Your song for ' * My lodging is 
on the cold ground," is likewise a dia- 
mond of the first water ; I am quite 
dazzled and delighted with it. Some 
of your Chlorises, I suppose, have 
flaxen hair, from your partiality for 
this colour ; else we difEer about it , 
for I should scarcely conceive a woman 
to be a beauty, and reading that she 



' ' Farewell, thou stream that wind- 
ing flows," I think excellent, but it is 
much too serious to come after " Nan- 
cy :" at least it would seem an incon- 
gruity to provide the same air with 
merry Scottish, and melancholy Eng- 
lish, verses ! The more that the two sets 
of verses resemble each other in their 
general character the better. Those 
you have manufactured for "Dainty 
Davie" will answer charmingly. I 
am happy to find you have begun your 
anecdotes. I care not how long they 
be, for it is impossible that anything 
from your pen can be tedious. Let me 
beseech you not to use ceremony in 
telling me when you wish to present 
any of your friends with the songs : 
the next carrier will bring you three 
copies, and you are as welcome to 
twenty as to a pinch of snufE. 



No. LX. 



BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Nov. 19, 1794. 

You see, my dear sir, what a punc- 
tual correspondent I am ; though in- 
deed you may thank yourself for the 
tedium of my letters, as you have so 
flattered me on my horsemanship 
with my favourite hobby, and have 
praised the grace of his ambling so 
much, that I am scarcely ever ofE his 
back. For instance, this morning, 
though a keen blowing frost, in my 
walk before breakfast, t finished my 
duet, which you were pleased to praise 
so much. Whether I have uniformly 
succeeded, I will not say ; but here it 
is for you, though it is not an hour 
old— [See " O Philly, happy be that 
day," p. 267.] 

Tell me, honestly, how you like it; 
and point out whatever you think 
faulty. 

I am much pleased with your idea of 
singing our songs in alternate stanzas, 
and regret that you did not hint it to 
me sooner. In those that remain I 
shall have it in my eye. I remem- 
ber your objections to the name, 
Philly , but it is the common abbre- 
viation of Phillie Sally, the onl^ 



C53 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 



other name that suits, lias, to my ear, 
a vulgarity about it, which unfits it 
for anything except burlesque. The 
legion of Scottish poetasters of the day, 
whom your brother editor, Mr. Ritson, 
ranks with me, as my coevals, have 
always mistaken vulgarity for simpli- 
city: whereas, simplicity is as much 
eloignee from vulgarity, on the one 
hand, as from afEected point and pue- 
rile conceit on the other. 

I agree with you, as to the air 
*' Craigie-burn Wood," that a chorus 
would, in some degree, spoil the effect; 
and shall certainly have none in my 
projected song to it. It is not, how- 
ever, a case in point with "Rothe- 
murche;" there, as in ** Roy's Wife 
of Aldivalloch," a chorus goes, to my 
taste, well enough. As to the chorus 
going first, that is the case with "Roy's 
Wife" as well as " Rothemurche." 
In fact, in the first part of both tunes, 
the rhythm is so peculiar and irregu- 
lar, and on that irregularity depends 
so much of their beauty, that we must 
e'en take them with all their wildness, 
and humour the verse accordingly. 
Leaving out the starting-note in both | 
tunes has, I think, an effect that no' 
regularity could counterbalance the 
want of. 

^„ J O Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch. 

^ \ O Lassie vfV the lint-white locks, 
and 



compare 
with 



Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch. 
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 



position; and "Andrew and his Cutty 
Gun" is the work of a master. By the 
way, are you not quite vexed to think 
that those men of genius, for such 
they certainly were, who composed 
our fine Scottish lyrics, should be un- 
known? It has given me many a 
heart-ache. Apropos to Bacchanalian 
songs in Scottish, I composed one yes- 
terday, for an air I like much — 
"Lumps o' pudding." [See "Con- 
tented wi' Little," p. 268. J 

If you do not relish the air, I will 
send it to Johnson. 

R. R 



Does not the tameness of the prefixed 
syllable strike you ? In the last case, 
with the true furor of genius, you 
strike at once into the wild originality 
of the air; whereas, in the first insipid 
method, it is like the grating screw of 
the pins before the fiddle is brought 
into tune. This is my taste; if I am 
wrong, I beg pardon of the cognos- 
centi. 

"The Caledonian Hunt" is so 
charming that it would make a;ny sub- 
ject in a song go down; but pathos is 
certainly its native tongue. Scottish 
Bacchanalians we certainly want, 
though the few we have are excellent. 
For instance, " Todlin' Hame" is, for 
wit and humour^ an uuDaralleled com- 



No. LXI. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Since yesterday's penmanship, I 
have framed a couple of English stan« 
zas, by way of an English song to 
"Roy's Wife." You will allow me 
that, in this instance, my English cor- 
responds in sentiment with the Scot- 
tish. [See "Canst thou leave me 
thus, my Katy?" p. 268.] 

Well ! I think this, to be done in 
two or three turns across my room, 
and with two or three pinches of Irish 
black-guard, is not so far amiss. You 
see I am determined to have my qiian* 
tum of applause from somebody. ^ 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure 1 
that we only want the trifling circum- j 
stance of being known to one anotheV ' 
to be the best friends on earth) that I 
much suspect he has, in his plates, 
mistaken the figure of the stock and 
horn. I have at last gotten one; but 
it is a very rude instrument: it is com- 
posed of three parts; the stock, which 
is the hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, 
such as you see in a mutton-ham; 
the horn, which is a common Highland 
cow's horn, cut off at the smaller end, 
until the aperture be large enough to 
admit the ptock to be pushed up 
thron<>-h the horn, until it be held by 
the thicker end of tht thigh-bone; and 
lastly, an oaten reod, jxactly cut and 
notched like Jiat v.hicli you see every 
shepherd boy have, s,7hcu the corn 
Stems are green and full-grown. Th^ 



\V1Th GeORG^ THOMSON. 



reed is not made fast in the bone, but 
is held by the lips, and plays loose in 
the smaller end of the stock; while the 
stock, with the horn hanging on its 
larger end, is held by the hands in 
playing. The stock has six or seven 
ventiges on the upper side, and one 
back ventige, like the common flute. 
This of mine was made, by a man from 
the braes of Athole, and is exactly 
what the shepherds were wont to use 
in that country. 

However, either it is not quite prop- 
erly bored in the holes, or else we 
have not the art of blowing it rightly; 
for we can make little of it. If Mr. 
Allan chooses, I will send him a sight 
of mine; as I look on myself to be a 
kind of brother-brush with him. 
"Pride in poets is nae sin," and, I 
will say it, that I look on Mr. Allan 
and Mr. Burns to be the only genuine 
and real painters of Scottish costume 
in the world. 



No. LXII. 
G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Nov. 29, 1794. 
I ACKNOWLEDGE, my dear sir, you 
are not only the most punctual, but the 
most delectable correspondent I ever 
met with. To attempt flattering you 
never entered my head; the truth is, I 
look back with surprise at my impu- 
dence, in so frequently nibbling at 
lines and couplets of your incom- 
parable lyrics, for which, perhaps, if 
vou had served me right, you would 
ffhave sent me to the devil. On the 
f contrary, however, you have, all along, 
condescended to invite my criticism 
with so much courtesy that it ceases 
to be wonderful if I have sometimes 

fiven myself the airs of a reviewer, 
our last budget demands unqualified 
praise; all the songs are charming, 
but the duet is a chef-d'oeuvre. 
* ' Lumps of pudding " shall certain- 
ly make one of my family dishes: 
you have cooked it so capitally that it 
will please all palates. Do give us a 
few more of this cast, when you find 
/ourself in good spirits; these conviv- 
ial songs are more wanted than those 



of the amorous kind, of which we 
have great choice. Besides, one does 
not often meet with a singer capable of 
giving the proper effect to the latter, 
while the former are easily sung, and 
acceptable to everybody. I participate 
in your regret that the authors of 
some of our best songs are unknown: 
it is provoking to every admirer of ge- 
nius. 

I mean to have a picture painted 
from your beautiful ballad, "The 
Soldier's Return," to be engraved for 
one of my frontispieces. The most in- 
teresting point of time appears to me, 
when she recognises her ain dear 
Willy, " She gazed, she reddened like 
a rose." The three lines immediately 
following are, no doubt, more impres- 
sive on the reader's feelings; but were 
the painter to fix on these, then you'll 
observe the animation and anxiety of 
her countenance is gone, and he could 
only represent her fainting in the sol- 
dier's arms. But I submit the matter 
to you, and beg your opinion. 

Allan desires me to thank you for 
your accurate description of the stock 
and horn, and for the very gratifying 
compliment you pay him, in consider- 
ing him worthy of standing in a niche, 
by the side of Burns, in the Scottish 
Pantheon. He has seen the rude in- 
strument you describe, so does not 
want you to send it; but wishes to 
know whether you believe it to have 
ever been generally used as a musical 
pipe by the Scottish shepherds, and 
when, and in what part of the country 
chiefly. I doubt much if it was ca- 
pable of anything but routing and 
roaring. A friend -of mine says, he 
remembers to have heard one in his 
younger days (made of wood instead of 
your bone), and that the sound was 
abominable. 

Do not, I beseech you, return any 
books. G. T. 



No. LXin. 

BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Dec. 1794. 
It is, I assure you, the pride of my 
heart to do anything to forward, or add 



ty64: 



CORRESPONDEKCE OP BtJRNS 



to tlie value of, your book; and, as I 
agree with you that the Jacobite song 
in the Museum, to " There'll never be 
peace till Jamie comes hame," would 
not so well consort with Peter Pindar's 
excellent love song to that air. I have 
just framed for you the following— 
£" My Nannie's awa," p. 333.] 

How does this please you ? — As to 
the point of time for the expression, 
in your proposed print from my * ' Sod- 
ger's Return," it must certainly be 
at — "She gazed." The interesting 
dubiety and suspense taking posses- 
sion of her countenance, and the gush- 
ing fondness, with a mixture of 
roguish playfulness in his, strike me 
as things of which a master will make 
a great deal. — In great haste, but in 
great truth, yours, R. B. 



No. LXIV. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Jan. 1795. 

I FEAR for my songs, however, a 
few may please, yet originality is a coy 
feature in composition, and in a multi- 
plicity of efforts ill the same style, 
disappears altogether. For these 
three thousand years, we poetic folks 
have been -describing the spring, for 
instance; and, as the spring continues 
the same, there must soon be a same- 
ness in the imagery, &c. , of these said 
rhyming ff)lks. 

A great critic (Aikin) on songs says 
that love and wine are the exclusive 
themes for song- writing. The follow- 
ing is on neither subject, and conse- 
quently is no song; but will be allow- 
ed, I think, to be two or three pretty 
good prose thoughts, inverted into 
rhyme — [See ' • Is there for honest pov- 
erty," p. 278.] 

I do not give you the foregoing song 
for your book, but merely by way of 
vive la hagatelle; for the piece is not 
really poetry. How will the following 
do for ' Craigie-burn Wood?" [See 
" Sweet fa's the eve on Cragie-burn," 
p. 235.] 

Farewell ! God bless you. 

R. B. 



No. LXV. 
a THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Jan. 30, 1795. 
My dear Sir, — I thank you hearti 
ly for " Nannie's awa," as well as foi 
" Cragie-burn," which I think a very 
comely pair. Your observation on 
the difficulty of original writing in a 
number of efforts, in the same style, 
strikes me very forcibly; and it liaa 
again and again excited my wonder to 
find you continually surmounting this 
difficulty, in the many delightful 
songs you have sent me. Your vive la 
hagatelle song, " For a' that," shall un- 
doubtedly be included in my list. 

a. T. 



No. LXVI. 

BURNS TO a THOMSON. 

Feb. 1795. 

Here is another trial at your favour, 
ite air, [See " O Lassie, art thou 
sleeping yet V" p. 279.] 

I do not know whether it will do. 
R. B. 



No. LXVII. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

EccLEFECHAN, Feb. 7, 1795, 

My dear Thomson, — You cannot 
have any idea of the predicament in 
which I write to you. In the course 
of my duty as supervisor, (in which 
capacity I have acted of late,) I came 
yesterniglit to this unfortunate, 
wicked, little village.* I have gone 
forward, but snows, of ten feet 
deep, have impeded my progress: 
I have tried to ' ' gae back the gate 
I cam again," but the same obstacle 
has shut me up within insuperable] 
bars. To add to my misfortune, 
since dinner, a scraper has been tor- 

* Ecclefechan is a little thriving village in 
Annandale. The poet paid it many a visit. 
Iriendly and official and even brought its 
almost unpronounceable name into a couplf 
of soniis. — CUNNINGH41M. 



WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 



555 



taring catgut, in sounds tliat would 
have insulted the dying agonies of 
a sow under the hands of a butcher, 
and thinks himself, on that very 
account, exceeding good company. In 
fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to 
get drunk, to forget these miseries, or 
to hang myself, to get rid of them; 
like a prudent man, (a character con- 
genial to my every thought, word, and 
deed,) I, of two evils, have chosen the 
least, and am very drunk, at your ser- 
vice ! 

I wrote you yesterday from Dum- 
fries. I had not time then to tell you 
all I wanted to say; and, Heaven 
knows, at present I have not capacity. 

Do you know an air — I am sure you 
must know it — " We'll gang nae mair 
to yon town?" I think, in slowish 
time, it would make an excellent song. 
I am highly delighted with it; and if 
you should think it worthy of your at- 
tention, I have a fair dame in my eye, 
to whom I would consecrate it. 

As I am just going to bed, I wish 
you a good night. R. B. 



No. LXVIII. 
G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Feb. 25, 1795. 

I HAVE to thank you, my dear sir, 
for two epistles, one containing ' ' Let 
me in this ae night;" and the other 
from Ecclefechan, proving that, drunk 
or sober, your "mind is never muddy." 
You have displayed great address 
in the above song. Her answer is 
excellent, and at the same time takes 
away the indelicacy that otherwise 
would have attached to his entreaties. 
1 like the song as it now stands, very 
much. 

I had hopes you would be arrested 
some days at Ecclefechan, and be 
obliged to beguile the tedioas fore- 
noons by song-making. It will give 
me pleasure to receive the verses you 
intend for *'Q wat ye wha's in yon 
town." 

G. T. 



No. LXIX. 

BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

May 1795. 

Let me know, your very first 
leisure, how you like this song ["Ad 
dress to the Woodlark," p. 283.] 

How do you like the foregoing? 
["On Chloris being ill," p. 383] The 
Irish air, "Humours of Glen," is a 
great favourite of mine, and as, except 
the silly stuff in the "Poor soldier," 
there are not any decent verses for it, 
I have written for it as follows — [Seo 
the song entitled, " Caledonia," p. 284, 
and " Twas na her bonnie blue ee," p. 
285, which accompanied the three for- 
mer.] 

Let me hear from you. R. B. 



No. LXX. 
G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

You must not think, my good sir, 
that I have any intention to enhance 
the value of my gift, when I say, in 
justice to the ingenious and worthy 
artist, that the design and execution of 
the " Cotter's Saturday -Night " is, in 
my opinion, one of the happiest pro- 
ductions of Allan's pencil. I shall be 
grievously disappointed if you are not 
quite pleased with it. 

The figure intended for your por- 
trait I think strikingly like you, as 
far as I can remember your phiz. This 
should make the piece interesting to 
your family every way. Tell me 
whether Mrs. Burns finds you out 
among the figures. 

I cannot express the feeling of ad- 
miration with which I have read your 
pathetic "Address to the Wood-lark," 
your elegant panegyric on " Caledo- 
nia." and your affecting verses on 
" Chloris' illness." Every repeated 
perusal of these gives new delight. 
The other song, to "Laddie, lie neal 
me," though not e(][ua,l to these, i| 
very pleasing. 



556 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 



No. LXXI. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Well ! tliis is not amiss. You see 
how I answer your orders. [The poet 
had enclosed the two songs, "How 
cruel are thy parents," p. 285, and 
" MarK yonder Pomp," p. 284.] Your 
tailor could not be more punctual. I 
am just now in a high fit for poetising, 
provided that the strait- jacket of crit- 
icism don't cure me. If you can in a 
post or two administer a little of the 
intoxicating portion of your applause, 
it will raise your humble servant's 
phrenzy to any height you want. I 
am at this moment "holding high 
converse" with the Muses, and have 
not a word to throw away on such a 
prosaic dog as you are. 

R. B. 



No. Lxxn. 

BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

May 1795. 

Ten thousand thanks for your 
elegant present; though lam ashamed 
of the value of it, being bestowed on 
a man who has not by any means 
merited such an instance of kindness. 
I have shown it to two or three judges 
of the first abilities here, and they all 
agree with me in classing it as a first- 
rate production. My pliiz is sae ken- 
speckle that the very joiner's appren- 
tice whom Mrs. Burns employed to 
break up the parcel (I was out of town 
that day) knew it at once. My most 
grateful compliments to Allan, who 
has honoured my rustic muse so much 
with his masterly pencil. One strange 
coincidence is, that the little one who 
is making the felonious attempt on the 
cat's tail, is the most striking likeness 
of an ill-deedie, damn'd wee, rumble- 
gairie urchin of mine, whom, from that 
propensity to witty wickedness and 
manfu' mischief, which, even at twa 
days' auld, I foresaw would form the 
itriking features of his disposition, I 



named Willie Nicol, after a certain 
friend of mine who is one of the 
masters of a grammar school in a city 
which shall be nameless. 

Give the enclosed epigram to my 
much- valued friend Cunningham, and 
tell him that on Wednesday I go to 
visit a friend of his, to whom his 
friendly partiality in speaking of me 
in a manner introduced me — 1 mean a . 
well-known military and literary char- « 
acter. Colonel Dirom. 

You do not tell me how you liked 
my two last songs. Are they condemn- 
ed? 

R. B. 



No. LXXHI. 

G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

May 13, 1795. 

It gives me great pleasure to find 
that you are all so well satisfied with 
Mr. Allan's production. The chance 
resemblance of your little fellow, 
whose promising disposition appeared 
so very early, and suggested whom he 
should be named after, is curious 
enough. I am acquainted with that 
person, who is a prodigy of learning 
and genius, and a pleasant fellow, 
though no saint. 

You really make me blush when 
you tell me you have not merited the 
drawing from me. I do not think I 
can ever repay you, or sufficiently es- 
teem and respect you, for the liberal 
and kind manner in which you have 
entered into the spirit of my under- 
taking, which could not have been 
perfected without you. So I beg you 
would not make a fool of me again, by 
speaking of obligation. 

I like your two last songs very much, 
and am happy to find you are in such 
a high fit of poetising. Long may it 
last ! Clarke has made a fine pathetic 
air to Mallet's superlative ballad of 
" William and Margaret," and is to 
give it to me, to be enrolled among 
the elect. 



WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 



55T 



No. LXXIV. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

In " Whistle, and I'll come to ye, 
my lad," the iteration of that line is 
tiresome to my ear. Here goes what I 
think is an improvement : — 

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad, 
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
Though father, and mother, and a' should gae 

mad, 
Thy Jeanie will venture wi' ye, my lad. 

In fact, a fair dame, at whose shrine 
I, the Priest of the Nine, offer up the 
incense of Parnassus; a dame whom 
the Graces have attired in witchcraft, 
and whom the Loves have armed with 
lightning; a fair one, herself the hero- 
ine of the song, insists on the amend- 
ment, and dispute her commands if 
you dare ! [See the song entitled, 
" This is no my ain lassie," p. 286 
which the poet enclosed.] 

Do Tou know that you have roused 
the torpidity of Clarke at last? He 
has requested me to write three or four 
songs for him, which he is to set to 
music himself. The enclosed sheet 
contains two songs for him, which 
please to present to my valued friend, 
Cunningham. 

I enclose the sheet opsn, both for 
your inspection, and that you may 
copy the song * * Oh, bonny was yon 
rosy brier." I do not know whether I 
am right; but that song pleases me, 
and, as it is extremely probable that 
Clarke's newly-roused celestial spark 
will be soon smothered in the fogs of 
indolence, if you like the song, it may 
go as Scottish verses to the air of "I 
wish my love was in a mire;'* and 
poor Erskine's English lines may 
follow. 

R. B. 



No. LXXV. 
G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, August 3, 1795. 

My dear Sir,— This will be de- 
livered to you by a Dr. Brianton, who 
has read your works, and pants for the 
honour of your acquaintance. I do 



not know the gentleman; but his 
friend, who applied to me for this 
introduction, being an excellent young 
man, I have no doubt he is worthy of 
all acceptation. 

My eyes have just been gladdened, 
and my mind feasted, with your last 
packet — full of pleasant things indeed. 
What an imagination is yours ! it 
is superfluous to tell you that I am de- 
lighted with all the three songs, as 
well as with your elegant and tender 
verses to Chloris. 

I am sorry that you should be induc- 
ed to alter "0 whistle, and I'll com« 
to ye, my lad," to the prosaic line, 
"Thy Jeanie will venture wi' ye, my 
lad," I must be permitted to say that 
I do not think the latter either reads 
or sings so well as the former. I wish, 
therefore, you would, in my name, 
petition the charming Jeanie, whoever 
she be, to let the line remain unaltered. 

I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke 
produce a few airs to be joined to your 
verses. — Everybody regrets his writ- 
ing so very little, as everybody 
acknowledges his ability to write well. 
Pray, was the resolution formed coolly 
before dinner, or was it a midnight 
vow, made over a bowl of punch with 
the bard ? 

I shall not fail to give Mr. Cunning- 
ham what you have sent him. 

G. T. 



No. LXXVI. 

BURNS TO G.. THOMSON. 

How do j^ou like the foregoing? . 
[" Forlorn, my love; no comfort near," j 
p. 283. ] I have written it within this 
liour: so much for the speed of my 
Pegasus; but what say you to his 
bottom? R. B. 



No. Lxxvn. 

BURNS TO Go THOMSON. 

[This letter contained "Last May a 
braw Wooer," p. 285, and the frag- 
ment beginning " Why, whv, tell thy 
lover," p. 284.] 



558 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BTTRITS 



Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm 
of this air, ["Caledonian Hunt's De- 
light,"] that I find it impossible to 
make another stanza to suit it, 

I am at present quite occupied with 
the charming sensations of the tooth- 
ache, so have not a word to spare. 

R. B. 



No. LXXVIIl. 
G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

June 3, 1795. 

My dear Sir,— Your English ver- 
ses to *' Let me in this ae night," are 
tender and beautiful; and your ballad 
to the " Lothian Lassie" is a master- 
piece for its humour and 7iawete. The 
fragment of the " Caledonian Hunt" 
is quite suited to the original measure 
of the air, and, as it plagues you so, 
the fragment must content it. I 
would rather, as I said before, have 
had Bacchanalian words, had it so 
pleased the poet; but, nevertheless, 
for what we have received. Lord, 
make us thankful 1 

G. T. 



No. LXXIX. 

G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Feb. 5, 1796. 

O Robby Burns, are ye sleeping- yet ? 
Or are ye wauking, I would wit ? 

The pause you have made, my dear 
sir, is awful ! Am I never to hear 
from you again ? I know and I lament 
how much you have been afilicted of 
late, but I trust that returning health 
and spirits will now enable you to re- 
sume the pen, and delight us with 
your musings. I have still about a 
dozen Scotch and Irish airs that I wish 
" married to immortal verse." We 
have several true-born Irishmen on 
the Scottish list; but they are now 
naturalised and reckoned our own 
good subjects; indeed we have none 
better. I believe I before told you 
that I had been much urged by some 
friends to publish a collection of all our 
^voarite airs and songs in octavo, em- 



bellished with a number of etchings 
by our ingenious friend Allan: what 
is your opinion of this V* 

G. T. 



No. LXXX. 

BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Feb. 17, 1796. 

Many thanks, my dear sir, for youi 
handsome, elegant present to Mrs. 
Burns, and for my remaining volume 
of Peter Pindar. — Peter is a delightful 
fellow, and a first favourite of mine. 
I am much pleased with your idea of 
publishing a collection of our songs 
in octavo, with etchings. I am ex- 
tremely willing to lend every assist- 
ance in my power. The Irish airs I 
shall cheerfully undertake the task of 
finding verses for. 

I have, already, you know, equipt 
three with words, and the other day I 
strung up a kind of rhapsody to an- 
other Hibernian melody, which I ad- 
mire much. [See " Hey for a lass wi* 
a tocher," p. 287.] 

If this will do, you have now four 
of my Irish engagement. In my by- 
past songs, I dislike one thing: the 
name Clitoris — I meant it as the ficti- 
tious name of a certain lady ; but, on 
second thoughts, it is a high incongru- 
ity to have a Greek appellation to a 
Scottish pastoral ballad. Of this, and 
some tilings else, in my next: I have 
more amendments to propose. — What 
you once mentioned of " flaxen locks " 
is just: they cannot enter into an ele- 
gant description of beauty. — Of this 
also again — God bless you ! 

R. B. 



No. LXXXL 
G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Your " Hey for a lass wi' a tocher," 
is a most excellent song, and with you 



* Bnms had made a pause in his correspond- 
ence ifori June 1795 to February 1796; and 
Thomson, feeling alarm, as much for the 

Foet's sake as for the " dozen of Scotch and 
rish airs" which he wished "^ wedded to im- 
mortal verse," wrote to make inquiries,-' 
Cunningham, 



WITH GEORG^fi THOMSON. 



m 



the subject is something new indeed. 
It is the first time I have seen you de- 
basing the god of soft desire into an 
amateur of acres and guineas. 

I am happy to find you approve of 
my proposed octavo edition. Allan 
has designed and etched about twenty 
plates, and I am to have my dioice of 
them for that work. Independently 
of the Hogarthian humour with which 
they abound, they exhibit the charac- 
ter and costume of the Scottish peas- 
antry with inimitable felicity. In this 
reapect, he himself says, they will far 
exceed the aquatinta plates he did for 
the "Gentle Shepherd," because in 
the etching he sees clearly what he is 
doing, but not so with the aquatinta, 
which he could not manage to his 
mind. 

The Dutch boors of Ostade are 
scarcely more characteristic and natu- 
ral than the Scottish figures in those 
etchings. G. T. 



No. LXXXII. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

April 1796. 

Alas ! my dear Thomson, I fear it 
will be some time ere 1 tune my lyre 
again 1 "By Babel streams I have sat 
and wept," almost ever since I wrote^you 
last: I have only known existence by 
the pressure of tlie heavy hand of sick- 
ness; and have counted time by the 
re-percussions of pain ! Rheumatism, 
cold, and fever, have formed to me a 
, terrible combination. I close my eyes 
in misery, and open them without 
hope. I look on the vernal day, and 
say with poor Fergusson — 

" Say, wherefore has an all-indulg-ent Heaven 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given?" 

This will be delivered to you by a 
Mrs. Hyslop, landlady of the Globe 
Tavern here, which for these many 
years has been my howff, and where 
our friend Clarke and I have had many 
a merry squeeze.* I am highly de- 



lighted with Mr. Allan's etchings. 
" Woo'd and married an' a'," is admir- 
able; the grouping is beyond all 
praise. The expression of the figures, 
conformable to the story in the ballad, 
is absolutely faultless perfection. I 
next admire " Turnimspike." What 
[ like least is " Jenny said to Jocky." 
Besides the female being in her ap- 
pearance .... if you take her 
stooping into the account, she is at least 
two inches taller than her lover. Podr 
Cleghorn ! I sincerely sympathize 
with him ! Happy am 1 to think that 
he yet has a well-grounded hope of 
health and enjoyment in this world. 
As for me — but that is a sad subject ! 

R. B. 



* Like the Boar's Heac( in Eastcheap, and 
the Mermaid in Friday Street, London, im- 
mortalised as these have been by the genius 



and wit of Shakespeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, 
and Ben Jonson, and many other of the 
prime spirits of their age ; so the Globe 
Tavern in Dumfries, the favourite haunt of 
our poet while resident in that town, appears 
to be destined to a similar acceptation in the 
eyes of posterity. 

The " hovvff,' of which Burns speaks, was a 
small, comfortable tavern, situated in the 
mouth of the Globe close, and it held at 
that time the rank as third among the houses 
of public accommodation in Dumfries. The 
excellence of the drink and the attentions 
of the proprietor were not, however, all its 
attractions. " Anna with the gowden locks " 
was one of the ministering damsels of the 
establishment ; customers loved to be served 
by one who was not only cheerful, but whose 
charms were celebrated by the Bard of Kyle. 
On one of the last visits paid by the poet, the 
wine of the "howff" was more than commonly 
strong— or, served by Anna, it went more 
glibly over than usual ; and when he rose to 
be gone, he found he could do no more than 
keep his balance. The night was frosty and 
the hour late ; the poet sat down on the steps 
of a door between the tavern and his own 
house, fell asleep, and did not awaken till he 
was almost dead with cold. To this exposure 
his illness has been imputed ; and no doubt it 
contributed, with disappointed hope and in- 
sulted pride, to bring him to an early grave.— 
Cunningham; 

On the panes of glass in the Globe, Burns 
was frequently in the habit of writing many 
of his vfiX.X.y jeri^ d'esprii, as well as fragmen- 
tary portions of his most celebrated songs. 
We fear these precious relics have now been 
wholly abstracted by the lovers and collectors 
of literary rarities. John Speirs, Esq., of 
Elderslie, has in his possession one of these 
panes of glass, upon which is written in 
Burns' autograph, the following verse 0/ 
"Sae flaxen were her ringlets," p. 263 ;— 

" Hers are the willing chains of love, 
By conquering Beauty's sovereign law ; 

Bui still my Chloris' dearest charm. 
She says she lo'es me best of a' I '' 



560 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 



No. LXXXIII. 
Q. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

May 4, 1796. 

I NEED not tell you, my good sir, 
what concern the receipt of your last 
gave me, and how much I sympathise 
in your sufferings. But do not, I be- 
seech you, give yourself up to de- 
spondency, nor speak the language of 
despair. The vigour of your constitu- 
tion, I trust, will soon set you on your 
feet again; and then, it is to be hoped, 
you will see the wisdom and necessity 
of taking due care of a life so valuable 
to your family, to your friends, and to 
the world. 

Trusting that your next will bring 
agreeable accounts of your convales- 
cence and returning good spirits, I re- 
main, with sincere regard, yours, 

G. T. 

P. 8. — Mrs. Hyslop, I doubt not, 
delivered the gold seal* to you in good 
condition. 



No. LXXXIV. 

BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

My deae Sir, — I once mentioned to 
you an air which I have long admired, 
" Here's a health to them that's awa, 
liinny," but I forget if you took any 
notice of it. I have just been trying 
to suit it with verses; and I beg leave 
to recommend the air to your atten- 
tion once more. I have only begun it. 
[See the beautiful song beginning, 
" Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear," 
p. 287.] 



No. LXXXV. 

BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Tnis will be delivered by a Mr. Le- 
wars, a young fellow of uncommon 
merit. As he will be a day or two in 

* On this gold seal the poet caused his coat 
of arms to be engraven, viz., a small bush ; a 
bird singing; the legend, "wood-notes w^ild," 
with the motto " Better hae a wee bush than 
«ae bield," 



town, you will have leisure, /f you 
choose, to write me by him; and if you 
have a spare half hour to spend with 
him, I shall place your kindness to my 
account. I have no copies of the songs 
I have sent you, — and I have taken a 
fancy to review them all, and possibly 
may mend some of them; so, when 
you have complete leisure, I will 
"thank you for either the originals or 
copies. I had rather be the author of five 
well- written songs than of ten other- 
wise. I have great hopes that the ge- 
nial influence of the approaching sum- 
mer will set me to rights, but as yet I 
cannot boast of returning health. I 
have now reason to believe that my 
complaint is a flying gout: a sad bus- 
iness ! 

Do let me know how Cleghorn is, 
and remember me to him. 

This should have been delivered to 
you a month ago. I am still very 
poorly, but should like much to hear 
from you. 



No. LXXXVI. 
BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 

Brow, on the Solway Firth, ) 
July 12, 1796. ) 

After all my boasted independence, 
curst necessity compels me to implore 
you for five pounds. A cruel wretch 
of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an 
account, taking it into his head that I 
am dying, has commenced a process, 
and will infallibly put me into jail. 
Do, for God's sake, send me that sum, 
and that by return of post. Forgive 
me this earnestness, but the horrors 
of a jail have made m« half distracted. 
I do not ask all this gratuitously; for, 
upon returning health, I hereby pro- 
mise and engage to furnish you with 
five pounds' worth of the neatest song- 
genius you have seen. I tried my 
hand on "Rothemurche" this morning. 
The measure is so diflftcult that it is 
impossible to infuse mucli genius into 
the lines; they are on the other _ side. 
[See the song, " fairest Maid on Dev- 
on Banks," p. 289.] Forgive, forgive 
me 1 



WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 



561 



No. LXXXVII. 
G. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

July 14, 1796. 

My dear Sir, — Ever since I re- 
ceived your melancholy letters by 
Mrs. Hyslop, I nave been ruminating 
in what manner I could endeavour to 
alleviate your sufferings. Again and 
again 1 thought of a pecuniary offer, 
but the recollection of one of your let- 
ters on this subject, and the fear of 
offending your independent spirit, 
checked my resolution. I thank you 
heartily, therefore, for the frankness 
of your letter of the 12th, and, with 
great pleasure, enclose a draft for the 
very sum I proposed sending. Would 
I were Chancellor of the Exchequer 
but for one day, for your sake ! 

Pray, my good sir, is it not possi- 
ble for you to muster a volume of 



poetry? If too much trouble to you, 
in the present state of your health, 
some literary friend might be found 
here, who would select and arrange 
from your manuscripts, and take upon 
him the task of editor. In the mean- 
time it could be advertised to be pub- 
lished by subscription. Do not shun 
this mode of obtaining the value of 
your labour: remember Pope publish- 
ed the Iliad by subscription. Think 
of this, my dear Burns, and do not 
reckon me intrusive with my advice. 
You are too well convinced of the re- 
spect and friendship I bear you, to 
impute anything I say to an unworthy 
motive. Yours faithfully, 

G. T. 

The verses to " Rothemurche " will 
answer finely. I am happy to see you 
can still tune your lyre. 



PREFATORY NOTE. 



The Clarinda of the following correspondence was a Mrs. M'Lehose, who resided in 
General's Entry, Poiterrow— so called from a tradition that General Monk had lodged there. 
Her maiden name was Agnes Craig ; she was the daughter of a highly-respectable surgeon 
in Glasgow, and when only seventeen years of age was married to a Mr. M Lehose, a law- 
agent. Her husband seems to have been in no way worthy of her, and a separation was the 
consequence. At the lime Burns met her, (1787,) her husband was in the West Indies. In 
addition to being beautiful in person and fascinating in manner, she was somethmg of 
a poetess, and more than ordinarily intelligent ; need it be wondered at, then, that she made 
a powerful impression on the susceptible poet, who was always ready to burst m^ a glow, 
even when the lady was not so attractive as Mrs. M'Lehose appears to have been. There can 
be no doubt of the genuine passion with which Burns inspired her : for all through the corres- 
pondence we can see that her love for the poet was leading her into acts of questionable 
propriety in a woman in her position, and that she felt this acutely. 

Burns has been blamed by several of his biographers for his connexion with Mrs. M Lehose 
in the face of his engagement with Jean Armour; but at the time there can be no doubt that 
he believed, and was justified in believing, that his engagement with her had come to an end. 
How slight was the impression made upon the poet by Clarinda will be seen from the speedy 
making up of all his differences with Jean Armour aud her family, and the rapid disappearance 
of Clarinda from his thoughts and correspondence. Mrs. M'Lehose acutely felt the poet s 
forgetfulness of her, but never ceased to hold his memory in affectionate remembrance. 
!n her private journal, vv rittcn forty years after the date of her last interview vnth him, sh« 
writes:— "6//tZ'^c.i83i.— This day I never can forget. Parted with Burns m the year 1791, 
never n\ore to meet in this world. Oh, may we meet in heaven I " 



562 



BTONS' WORKS. 



tn her reply to Letter XII. of the correspondence, she says: — " Never were there t.\vo hearts 
formed so exactly ahke as ours. Oh, let the scenes of nature remind you of Clarjhda! In 
winter, remember tiie dark shades of her fate ; in summer, the warmili of her friendship ; in 
autumn, her glowing wishes to bestow plenty on all: and let spring animate you with hopes 
that your friena may yet surmount the wintry blasts of life, and revive to taste a spring-time 
of happiness. At all events, Sylvander, the storms of life will quickly pass, and ' one 
unbounded spring encircle all.' Love there is not a crime. I charge you to meet me there. 
O God ! I must lay down my pen." Mr. Chambers says : — " I have heard Clarinda,at seventy- 
five, express the same hope to meet in another sphere the one heart that she had ever found 
herself able entirely to sympathize with, but which had been divided from her on earth by 
such pitiless obstacles." 

She died in 1841, in her eighty-second year. There is but one opinion as to the nature of 
the correspondence. She can be charged with nothing more serious than the imprudence of 
loving and giving warm expression to her love for the poet while she was still the wife of 
another. Notwithstanding this, Clarinda appears to better advantage in the correspondence 
than Sylvander, and there can be no doubt as to the reality and intensity of her love and 
admiration for him ; while his letters and after forgetfulness prove the truth of Gilbert Burns' 
assertion, that he was " constantly the victim of some fair enslaver. One generally reigned 

paramount in his affections ; but as Yorick's affections flowed out towards Madame de L • 

at the remise door, while the eternal vows of Eliza were upon him. so Robert was frequently 
encountering other attractions, which formed so many under-plots in the drama of his love. 



LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 



No. I. 

Thursday Evening. 

Madam,— I had set no small store 
by my tea-drinking to-night, and have 
not often been so disappointed, Sat- 
urday evening I shall embrace the op- 
portunity with the greatest pleasure. 
1 leave this town this day se'en-night, 
and, probably, for a couple of twelve- 
months; but must ever regret that I 
so lately got an acquaintance I shall 
ever highly esteem, and in whose wel- 
fare I shall ever be warmly interested. 

Our worthy common friend, in her 
usual pleasant way, rallied me a good 
deal on my new acquaintance, and in 
the humour of her ideas I wrote some 
lines, which I enclose you, as I think 
they have a good deal of poetic merit; 

and Miss tells me you are not 

only a critic, but a poetess. Fiction, 
you know, is the native region of poe- 
try; and I hope you will pardon my 
vanity in sending you the bagatelle as 



a tolerably of^-lmnd jeu-d' esprit. I have 
several poetic trifles, which I shall 

gladly leave with Miss , or you, if 

they were worth house room: as there 
are scarcely two people on earth by 
whom it would mortify me more to be 
forgotten, though at the distance of 
nine-score miles, — I am, madam, with 
the highest respect, your very humble 
servant, 



No. IL 

Saturday Evening. 

I CAN say with truth, madam, that 
I never met with a person in my life 
whom I more anxiously wished to 
meet again than yourself. To-night I 
was to have had that very great pleas- 
ure; I was intoxicated with the idea, 
but an unlucky fall from a coach haa 
so bruised one of my knees that I can't 
stir my leg; so if I don't see you agaLa^ 



LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 



568 



I shall not rest in my ^rave for chagrin. 
I was vexed to the soul 1 had not se(n 
you sooner; I determined to cultivate 
your friendship with the enthusiasm 
of religion; but thus has Fortune ever 
served me. I cannot bear the idea of 
leaving Edinburgh without seeing 
you. I know not how to account for 
it — I am strangely taken with some 
people, nor am 1 often mistaken. You 
are a stranger to me; but I am an odd 
being; some yet unnamed feelings, 
things, not principles, but better than 
whims, carry me farther than boasted 
reason ever did a philosopher. — Fare- 
well ! every happiness be yours ! 



No. III. 



Friday Evening. 

I BEG yoiir pardon, my dear " Clar- 
inda," for the fragment scrawl I sent 
you yesterday. 1 really do not know 
what I wrote. A gentleman, for whose 
character, abilities, and critical knowl- 
edge I have the highest veneration, 
called in just as I had begun the second 
sentence, and I would not make the 
porter wait. I read to my much- 
respected friend several of my own 
bagatelles, and, among others, your 
lines, which I had copied out. He 
began some criticisms on them as on 
the other pieces, when I informed him 
they were the work of a y»ung lady in 
this town, which, I assure you, made 
him stare. My learned friend serious- 
ly protested that he did not believe 
any young woman in Edinburgh was 
capable of such lines: and if you know 
anything of Professor Gregory, you 
will neither doubt of his abilities nor 
Ids sincerity. I do love you, if possi- 
ble, still better for having so fine 
a taste and turn for poesy. I have 
again gone wrong in my usual un- 
guarded way, but you may erase the 
word, and put esteem, respect, or any 
other tame Dutch expression you 
please, in its place. I believe there is 
no holding converse, nor carrying on 
correspondence, with an amiable 
woman, much less a gloriously amiable 
fine woman, without some mixture of 



that delicious j)assion, whose most de- 
voted slave I have more than once had 
the honour of being — But why be hurt 
or offended on that account ? Can no 
honest man have a prepossession for a 
fine woman, but he must run his head 
against an intrigue ? Take a little of 
the tender witchcraft of love, and add 
to it the generous, the honourable sen- 
timent' of manly friendship: and I 
know but 07ie more delightful morsel, 
which few, few in any rank ever taste. 
Such a composition is like adding 
cream to strawberries; it not only 
gives the fruit a more elegant richness, 
but has a peculiar deliciousness of its 
own. 

I enclose you a few lines I composed 
on a late melancholy occasion. I will 
not give above five or six copies of it 
at all, and I would be hurt if any 
friend should give any copies without 
my consent. 

You cannot imagine, Clarinda, (I like 
the idea of Arcadian names in a com- 
merce of this kind J how much store I 
have set by the hopes of your future 
friendship. 1 do not know if you have 
a just idea of my character, but I wish 
you to see me as lam. I am, as most 
people of my trade are, a strange will- 
o'-wisp being; the victim, too frequent- 
ly, of much imprudence and many 
follies. My great constituent elements 
Sivepi'ide and passion. The first I have 
endeavoured to humanise into integrity 
and honour; the last makes me a 
devotee to the warmest degree of en- 
thusiasm, in love, religion, or friend- 
ship — either of them, or altogether, as 
I happen to be inspired. 'Tis true, I 
never saw you but once; but how 
much acquaintance did I form with 
you in that once ! Do not think I 
fiatter you, or have a design upon you, 
CHarinda; I have too much pride for 
the one, and too little cold contrivance* 
for the other; but of all God's crea- 
tures I ever could approach in the 
beaten way of my acquaintance, you 
struck me with the deepest, the 
strongest, the most permanent im- 
pression. I say, the most permanent 
because I know myself well, and how 
far I can promise either in my prepo». 



'M 



BURNS' WORKS. 



sessions or powers. Why are you un- 
happy ? And why are so many of our 
fellow-creatures, unworthy to belong 
to the same species with you, blest 
with all they can wish ? You have a 
hand all benevolent to give — Why 
were you denied the pleasure? You 
have a heart formed — gloriously form- 
ed — for all the most refined luxuries of 
}ove: Why was that heart ever wrung? 

Clarinda ! shall we not meet in 
a state, some yet unknown state of 
being, where the lavish hand of plentv 
shall minister to the highest wish 
of benevolence; and where the chill 
north-wind of prudence shall never 
blow over the flowery fields of enjoy- 
ment ? If we do not, man was made 
in vain I I deserved most of the 
unhappy hours that have lingered over 
my head; they were the wages of my 
labour: but what unprovoked demon, 
malignant as hell, stole upon the confi- 
dence of unmistrusting busy Fate, and 
dashed i/our cup of life with unde- 
served sorrow ? 

Let me know how long your stay 
will be out of town: I shall count the 
hours till you inform me of your 
return. Cursed etiquette forbids your 
seeing me just now; and so soon as I 
can walk I must bid Edinburgh adieu. 
Lord, why was I born to see misery 
which I cannot relieve, and to meet 
with friends whom I cannot enjoy ? I 
look back with the pang of unavailing 
avarice on my loss in not knowing you 
sooner: all last winter, these three 
months past, what luxury of inter- 
course have I not lost ! Perhaps, 
though, 'twas better for my peace. 
You see I am either above, or incapa- 
ble of, dissimulation, I believe it is 
want of that particular genius. I de- 
spise design, because I want either 
coolness or wisdom to be capable of it. 

1 am interrupted. — Adieu ! my dear 
Clarinda I SYLvANbER. 



No. IV. 



You are right, my dear Clarinda: a 
friendly correspondence goes for noth- 
ing, except one writes his or her undis- 
guised sentiments. Yours please me 



for their -intrinsic merit, as welZ as be- 
cause they are yours, which 1 assure 
you, is to me a high recommenda- 
tion. Your religious sentiments, mad- 
am, I revere. If you have, on some sus- 
picious evidence, from some lying ora- 
cle, learned that I despise or ridicule so 
sacredly important a matter as real re- 
ligion, you have, my Clarinda, much 
misconstrued your friend. — " I am not 
mad, most noble Festus !" Have you 
ever met a perfect character ? Do we 
not sometimes rather exchange faults 
than get rid of them ? For instance, I 
am perhaps tired with, and shocked 
at, a life too much the prey of giddy 
inconsistencies and thoughtless follies; 
by degrees I grow sober, prudent, and 
statedly pious — I say statedly, because 
the most unaffected devotion is not at 
all inconsistent with my first charac- 
ter — I join the world in congratulating 
myself on the happy change. But let 
me pry more narrowly into this affair. 
Have I, at bottom, anything of a 
secret pride in these endowments and 
emendations? Have I nothing of a 
presbyterian sourness, an hypocritical 
severity, when I survey my less regu- 
lar neighbors? In a word, have I 
missed all those nameless and number- 
less modifications of indistinct selfish- 
ness, which' are so near our own eyes 
that we can scarcely bring them within 
the sphere of our vision, and which the 
known spotless cambric of our charac- 
ter hides from the ordinary observer ? 
My definition of worth is short- 
truth and humanity respecting oUk 
fellow-creatures; reverence and hu- 
mility in the presence of that Being, 
my Creator and Preserver, and who, I 
have every reason to believe, will one 
day be my Judge. The first part of 
my definition is the creature of un- 
biassed instinct; the last is the child 
of after reflection. Where I found 
these two essentials, I would gently 
note, and slightly mention, any attend- 
ant flaws — flaws, the marks, the con- 
sequences, of human nature. 

I can easily enter into the sublinM 
pleasures that your strong imagination 
and keen sensibility must derive from 
religion, particularly if a little in th« 



LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 



563 



sliade of misfortune: but I own I can- 
not, without a marked grudge, see 
Heaven totally engross so amiable, so 
charming, a woman ;is my friend Clar- 
inda; and should be very well pleased 
at a circumstance that would put it 
in the power of somebody (happy some- 
body !) to divide her attention, with ^ 
all the delicacy and tenderness of an 
earthly a^achment. 

You will not easily persuade me that 
you have not a grammatical knowl 
edge of the English language. So far 
from being inaccurate, you are elegant 
beyond any woman of my acquaint- 
ance, except one, whom I wish you 
knew. 

Your last verses to me have so de- 
lighted me that 1 have got an excellent 
old Scots air that suits the measure, 
and you shall see them in print in the 
Scots Musical Museum, a work pub- 
lishing by a friend of mine in this 
town. I want four stanzas; you gave 
me but three, and one of them alluded 
to an expression in my former letter; 
so I have taken your first two verses, 
"with a slight alteration in the second, 
and have added a third; but you must 
help me to a fourth. Here they are ; 
the latter half of tho first stanza would 
Lave been worthy of Sappho; I am in 
laptures with it. 

" Talk not of Love, it gives me pain. 

For Love has been my foe ; 
He bound me with an iron chain, 

And sunk me deep in woe. 

" But friendship's pure and lasting joys 
My heart was formed to prove ; 

There, welcome, win, and wear the prize, 
But never talk of love. 

" Your friendship much can make me blest, 

Oh why that bliss destroy ! 
Why urge the odious [only] one request, 

You know I must [will] deny." 

The alteration in the second stanza 
Is no improvement, but there was a 
slight inaccuracy in your rhyme. The 
third I only oflEer to your choice, and 
have left two words for your deter- 
mination. The air is ' ' The banks of 
Spey," and is most beautiful. 

To-morrow evening I intend taking 
a chair, and paying a visit at Park 
Place to a much- valued old friend. 
If I could be sure of finding you at 



home, (and I will send one of tho 
chairmen to call,) I would spend from 
five to six o'clock with you, as I go 
past. I cannot do more at this time, 
as 1 hav^e something on my hand that 
hurries me much. I propose giving 
you the first call, my old friend the 

second, and Miss as I return 

home. Do not break any engagement 
for me, as I will spend another even- 
ing with you, at any rate before I 
leave town. 

Do not tell me that vou are pleased 
when your friends inform you of your 
faults. I am ignorant what they are; 
but 1 am sure they must be such evan- 
escent trifles, compared with your per. 
sonal and mental accomplishments, 
that I would despise the ungenerous 
narrow soul who would notice any 
shadow of imperfections you may 
seem to have, any other way than in 
the most delicate agreeable raillery. 
Coarse minds are not aware how much 
they injure the keenly feeling tie of 
bosom-friendship, when, in their fool- 
ish officiousness, they mention what 
nobody cares for recollecting. People 
of nice sensibility and generous minds 
have a certain intrinsic dignity that 
fires at being trilled with, or lowered, 
or even too nearly approached. 

You need make no apology for long 
letters. I saw even with you. Many 
happy new years to you, charming 
Clarinda! I 'can't dissemble, were it 
to shun perdition. He who sees you 
as I have done, and does not love you, 
deserves to bedamn'dfor his stupidity! 
He who loves you. and would injure 
you, deserves to be doubly damn'd foi 
his villainy ! Adieu. 

Sylvander. 

p, ^.—What would you think ol 
this for a fourth stanza? 

Your thought, if love must harbour there, 

Concealit in that thought. 
Nor cause me from my bosom tear 

The very friend I sought. 



No. V. 

Monday Evening, ii o'clock. 
Why have I not heard from you, 
Clarinda? To-day T expected it; and 



560 



BUlfNS' WORKS. 



before supper, when a letter to me 
was announced, my heart danced 
with rapture; but behold, 'twas some 
fool who had taken it into his head to 
turn poet, and made me an offering of 
the first fruits of his nonsense. "It is 
not poetry, but prose run mad." Did 
I ever repeat to you an epigram 1^ 
made on a Mr. Elphinstone, who has 
given you a translation of Martial, a 
famous Latin poet? — The poetry of 
Elphinstone can only equal his prose 
notes. I was sitting in the shop of a 
merchant of my acquaintance, waiting 
somebody; he put Elphinstone into 
my hand, and asked my opinion of it; 
I begged leave to write it on a blank 
leaf, which I did. [See p. 179.] 

I am determined to see you, if at all 
possible, on Saturday evening. Next 
week I must sing 

" The night is my departing night 

The morn's the day I maun awa ; 
There's neither friend nor foe o' mine, 

But wishes that I were awa ! 
What I hae done for lack o' wit, 

I never, never can reca'; 
I hope ye're a' my friends as yet, 

Guid night, and joy be wi' you a' ! " 

If I could see you sooner, I would be 
50 much the happier; but I would not 
purchase the dearest gratification on 
earth, if it must be at your expense in 
worldly censure, far less inward peace! 

I shall certainly be ashamed of thus 
scrawling whole sheets of incoherence. 
The only unity (a sad word with poets 
and critics !) in my ideas is Clarind-^. 
There my heart * ' reigns and revels. " 

** What art thou, Love ? whence are those 
charms 

That thus thou bear'st a universal rule ? 
For thee the soldier quits his arms. 

The king turns slave, the wise man fool. 
In vain we chase thee from the field, 

And with cool thoughts resist thy yoke : 
Next tide of blood, alas ! we yield ; 

And all those high resolves are broke ! " 

I like to have quotations for every 
occasion. They give one's ideas so 
pat, and save one the trouble of find- 
ing expression adequate to one's feel- 
ings. I think it is one of the greatest 
pleasures, attending a poetic genius, 
that we can give our woes, cares, joys, 
loves, &c. , an embodied form in verse, 



which to me is ever immediate ease. 
Goldsmith says finely of his Muse — 

" Thou source of all ray bliss and all my wof , 
Thou found'st me poor at first, and keep'hi 
me so." 

My limb has been so well to-day 
that I have gone up and down stairs 
often without my staff. To-morrow 1 
hope to walk once again on my own 
legs to dinner. It is only next street. 
— Adieu. Sylvander. 



No. VI. 



Saturday Noon. 

Some days, some nights, nay, some 
Jiours, like the ten righteous persons 
in Sodom," save the rest of the vapid, 
tiresome miserable months and years 
of life. One of these hours, my dear 
Clarinda blessed me with yesternight. 

" One well spent hour, 
In such a tender circumstance for friends. 
Is better than an age of common time ! " 

—Thomson. 

My favourite feature in Milton's Sa- 
tan is his manly fortitude in support- 
ing what cannot be remedied — in short*, 
the wild, broken fragments of a noblo 
exalted mind in ruins. I meant no 
more by saying he was a favourite 
hero of mine. 

I mentioned to you my letter to Dr. 
Moore, giving an account of my life, 
it is truth, every word of it; and will 
give you the just idea of a man whom 
you have honoured with your friend- 
ship. I am afraid you will hardly be 
able to make sense of so torn a piece. 
—Your verses I shall muse on de- 
liciously, as I gaze on your image in 
my mind's eye, in my heart's core; they 
will be in time enough for a week to 
come, I am truly happy your head- 
ache is better. Oh, how can pain or 
evil be so daringly, unfeelingly, 
cruelly savage as to wound so noble 
a mind, so lovely a form ! 

My little fellow is all my namesake. 
— Write me soon ; My every strongesi 
good wishes attend you, Clarinda ! 
Sylvander. 

I know not what I have written — I 
am pestered with people around me. 



LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 



mi 



No. VII. 

Sunday Night. 
The impertinence of fools lias joined 
with a return of an old indisposition, 
to make me good for nothing to-day. 
The paper has lain before me all this 
evening, to write to my dear Clarinda, 
but— 

*' Fools rushed on tools, as waves succeed to 
waves." 

I curse them in my soul; they sacri- 
legiously disturbed my meditations on 
her who holds my heart. What a 
creature is man ! A little alarm last 
night and to-day, that I am mortal, 
has made such a revolution on my 
spirits ! There is no philosophy, no 
divinity, comes half so home to the 
mind. I have no idea of courage that 
braves heaven. 'Tis the wild ravings 
of an imaginary hero in bedlam. 

I can no more, Clarinda; I can 
scarcely hold up my head; but I 
am happy you do not know it, you 
wou^d be so uneasy. 

Sylvander. 



Monday Morning. 

I am, my lovely friend, much better 
this morning on the whole; but I have 
a horrid languor on my spirits. 

" Sick of the world, and all its joys, 
My soul in pining sadness mourns ; 

Dark scenes of woe my mind employs. 
The past and present in their turns." 

Have you ever met with a saying of 
the great, and likewise good, Mr. 
f Locke, author of the famous Essay on 
the Human Understanding ? He wrote a 
letter to a friend, directing it " not to 
be delivered till after my decease :" it 
ended thus — "I know you loved me 
when living, and will preserve my 
memory now I am dead. All the use 
to be made of it is that this life affords 
no solid satisfaction, but in the con- 
sciousneae of having done well, and 
the hopes of another life. Adieu ! I 
leave my best wishes with you. — J. 
Locke. " 

Clarinda, may I reckon on your 
friendship for life ! I think I may. 
Thou almighty Preserver of men 1 thy 
A jr 



friendship, which hitherto I Imve too 
much neglected, to secure it sliall, all 
the future days and nights of my life, 
be my steady care 1 The idea of my 
Clarinda follows — 

" Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise. 
Where, mix d with God's, her loved idea lies.'* 

But I fear inconstancy, the conse- 
quent imperfection of human weak, 
ness. Shall I meet with a friend- 
ship that defies years of absence, and 
the chances and changes of fortune ? 
Perhaps "such things are;" one hon- 
est man I have great hopes from that 
way: but who, except a romance 
writer, would think on a love that 
could promise for life, in spite of dis- 
tance, absence, chance, and change; 
and that, too, with slender hopes of 
fruition ? For my own part, I can 
say to myself in both requisitions, 
" Thou art the man 1" I dare, in cool 
resolve I dare, declare myself that 
friend, and that lover. If womankind 
is capable of such things, Clarinda is. 
I trust that she is; and feel I shall 
be miserable if she is not. There is 
not one virtue which gives worth, nor 
one sentiment which does honour to 
the sex, that she does not possess, 
superior to any woman I ever saw: 
her exalted mind, aided a little, per- 
haps, by her situation, is, I think, ca- 
pable of that nobly- romantic love-en- 
thusiasm. 

May I see you on Wednesday even- 
ing, my dear angel ? The next Wed- 
nesday again will, I conjecture, be a 
hated day to us both. I tremble for 
censorious remark, for your sake; but 
in extraordinary cases, may not usual 
and useful precaution be a little dis- 
pensed with ? Three evenings, three 
swift winged evenings, with pinions 
of down, are all the past; I dare not 
calculate the future. I shall call at 

Miss- 's to-morrow evening; 'twill 

be a farewell call. 

I have written out my last sheet of 
paper, so I am reduced to my last 
half-sheet. What a strange myste- 
ious faculty is that thing called imag- 
ination ! We have no ideas almost at 
all of another world; but I have of tan 



<^68 



BtTRNS' WORKa 



amused myself with visionary schemes 
of what happiness might be enjoyed 
by small alterations — alterations that 
we can fully enter into, in this present 
ptate of existence. For instance, sup- 
pose you and I, just as we are at pres- 
ent; the same reasoning powers, senti- 
ments, and even desires; the same 
fond curiosity for knowledge and re- 
marking observation in our minds; 
and imagine our bodies free from pain 
and the necessary supplies for the 
wants of nature at all times, and 
easily within our reach ; imagine fur- 
ther, that we were set free from the 
laws of gravitation, which bind us to 
this globe, and could at pleasure fly, 
without inconvenience, through all 
the yet unconjectured bounds of crea- 
tion, what a life of bliss would we 
lead, in our mutual pursuit of virtue 
and knowledge, and our mutual enjoy- 
ment of friendship and love ! 

I see you laughing at my fairy 
fancies, and calling me a voluptuous 
Mohammedan; but I am certain I 
would be a happy creature, beyond any- 
thing we call bliss here below; nay, 
it would be a paradise congenial to 
you too. Don't you see us, hand in 
hand, or rather, my arm about your 
lovely waist, making our remarks on 
Sinus, the nearest of the fixed stars; 
or surveying a comet, flaming innoxi- 
ous by us, as we just now would mark 
the passing pomp of a travelling mon- 
arch; or in a shady bower of Mercury 
or Venus, dedicating the hour to love, 
in mutual converse, relying honour, and 
revelling endearment, whilst the most 
exalted strains of poesy and harmony 
would be the ready spontaneous lan- 
guage of our souls ! Devotion is the 
favourite employment of your heart; so 
is it of mine; what incentives then to, 
and powers for reverence, gratitude, 
faith, and hope, in all the fervours of 
adoration and praise to that Being, 
whose unsearchable wisdom, power, 
and goodness, so pervaded, so in- 
spired, every sense and feeling ! — By 
this time, I dare say you will be bless- 
ing the neglect of the maid that leaves 
lae destitute of paper 1 

Sylvander. 



No. VIII. 

Tuesday Night. 

I AM delighted, charming Clarinda, 
with your honest enthusiasm for relig- 
ion. Those of either sex, but partic- 
ularly the female, who are lukewarm 
in that most important of all things, 
' ' O my soul, come not thou into theij 
secrets !" — 1 feel myself deeply inter- 
ested in your good opinion, and will 
lay before you the outlines of my be- 
lief. He, who is our Author and Pre- 
server, and will one day be our Judge, 
must be (not for his sake in the way 
of daty, but from the native impulse 
of our hearts) the object of our rever- 
ential awe and grateful adoration: He 
is Almighty and all -bounteous, we are 
weak and dependent; hence prayer and 

every other sort of devotion. " He 

is not willing that any should perish, 
but that all should come to everlasting 
life;" consequently it must be in every 
one's power to embrace his offer of 
*' everlasting life;" otherwise he could 
not, in justice, condemn those who did 
not. A mind pervaded, actuated, and 
governed by purity, truth, and charity, 
though it does not merit heaven, yet is 
an absolutely necessary pre-requisite, 
without which heaven can neither be 
obtained nor enjoyed; and, by divine 
promise, such a mind shall never fail 
of attaining "everlasting life:" hence 
the impure, the deceiving, and the un- 
charitable, extrude themselves from 
eternal bliss, by their unfitness for en- 
joying it. The Supreme Being has 
put the immediate administration of 
all this, for wise and good ends known 
to himself, into the hands of Jesus 
Christ, a great personage, whose re- 
lation to him we cannot comprehend, 
but whose relation to us is a guide and 
Saviour; and who, except for our own 
obstinacy, and misconduct, will bring 
us all, through various ways, and by 
various means, to bliss at last. 

These are my tenets, my lovelj 
friend; and which, I think, cannot be 
well disputed. My creed is pretty 
nearly expressed in the last clause oi 
Jamie Dean's grace, an honest weavel 
in Ayrshire J " Lord, grant that Wl 



LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 



560 



may lead a guid life ! for a guid life 
maks a guid end, at least it helps 
weel 1" 

I am flattered by the entertainment 
you tell me you have found in my 
packet. You see me as I have been, 
you know me as 1 am, and may guess 
at what I am likely to be. I too may 
say, " Talk not of love," &c., for in- 
deed he has " plunged me deep in 
woe !" Not that I ever saw a woman 
who pleased unexceptionably, as my 
Clarinda elegantly says, " In the 
companion, tlie friend, and the mis- 
tress." One indeed I could except — One, 
before passion threw its mists over my 
discernment, I knew the first of wo- 
men ! Her name is indelibly written 
in my heart's core — but I dare not look 
in on it — a degree of agony would be 
the consequence. thou perfidious, 
cruel, mischief-making demon, who 
presidest over that frantic passion — 
thou mayest, thou dost poison my 
peace, but thou shalt not taint my hon- 
our — I would not, for a single mo- 
ment, give an asylum to the most dis- 
tant imagination that would shadow 
the faintest outline of a selfish gratifi- 
cation, at the expense of her whose 
happiness is twisted with the threads 

of my existence. May she be as 

happy as she deserves ! And if my 
tenderest, faithfullest friendship can 
add to her bliss, I shall at least have 
one solid mine of enjoyment in my 
bosom ! Don't guess at these ravings ! 

1 watched at our front window to- 
day, but was disappointed. It has 
been a day of disappointments. I am 
just risen from a two hours' bout after 
supper, with silly or sordid souls, who 
could relish nothing in common with 

me but the Port. One 'Tis now 

*' witching time of night;" and what- 
ever is out of joint in the foregoing 
scrawl, impute it to enchantment and 
spells; for I can't look over it, but 
will seal it up directly, as I don't care 
for to-morrow's criticisms on it. 

You are by this time fast asleep, 
Clarinda; may good angels attend and 
guard you as constantly and faithfully 
fts 1117 ^ood wishes do 1 



*' Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep. 
Shot forth peculiar graces." 

John Milton, I wish thy soul better 
rest than I expect on my pillow to- 
night ! for a little of the cart-horse 
part of human nature 1 Wood night, 
my dearest Clarinda I 

Sylvander. 



No. IX. 

Thursday Noon. 

I AM certain I saw you, Clarinda; 
but you don't look to the proper story 
for a poet's lodging — 

" Where speculation roosted near the sky." 

I could almost have thrown myself 
over for very vexation. Why didn't 
you look higher ! It has spoiled my 
peace for this day. To be so near my 
charming Clarinda; to miss her look 
when it was searching for me — I am 
sure the soul is capable of disease, for 
mine has convulsed itself into an in- 
flammatory fever. 

You have converted me, Clarinda I 
(I shall love that name while I live: 
there is heavenly music in it.) Booth 
and Amelia I know well.* Your sen- 
timents on that subject, as they are on 
every subject, are just and noble. "To 
be feelingly alive to kindness, and to 
unkindness," is a charming female 
character. 

_ What I said in my last letter, the 
powers of fuddling sociality only know 
for me. By yours, I understand my 
good star has been partly in my hori> 
zon, when I got wild in my reveries. 
Had that evil planet, which has almost 
all my life shed its baleful rays on 
my devoted head, been as usual, in 
my zenith, I had certainly blabbed 
something that would have pointed 
out to you the dear object of my tend- 
erest friendship, and, in spite of me, 
something more. Had that fatal in- 
formation escaped me, and it was 
merely chance, or kind stars, that it 
did not, I had been undone ! You 
would never have have written me ex- 



* An allusipn to FieWing's *' Amelia.' 



570 



BURNS' WORKS. 



cept perhaps once more ! Oh, I could 
curse circumstalices, and the coarse 
tie of human laws, which keep fast 
what common sense would loose, and 
whifch bars that happiness itself can- 
not give — happiness which otherwise 
Love and Honour would warrant ! 
But hold — I shall make no more "hair- 
breadth 'scapes." 

My friendship, Clarinda, is a life- 
rent business. My likings are both 
strong and eternal. I told you I had 
but one male friend: I have but two 
female. I should have a third, but 
she is surrounded by the blandish- 
ments of flattery and courtship, . . 
I register in my heart's core — , . . 

Miss N can tell, how divine she is. 

She is worthy of a place in the same 
bosom with my Clarinda. That is the 
highest compliment I can pay her. 

Farewell, Clarinda! Remember 
Sylvander 



No. X. 



Saturday Morning. 

Your thoughts on religion, Cla- 
rinda, shall be welcome. You may, 
perhaps, distrust me, when I say 'tis 
also my favourite topic; but' mine is 
the religion of the bosom. I hate the 
very idea of a controversial divinity; 
as I firmly believe that every honest 
upright man, of whatever sect, will be 
accepted of the Deity. If your verses, 
as you seem to hint, contain censure, 
except you want an occasion to break 
with me, don't send them. I have a 
little infirmity in my disposition, that 
where I fondly love or highly esteem, 
I cannot bear reproach. 

"Reverence thyself" is a sacred 
maxim, and I wish to cherish it. I 
think I told you Lord Bolingbroke's 
saying to Swift — ". Adieu, dear Swift, 
with all thy faults I love thee entirely; 
make an effort to love me with all 
mine." A glorious sentiment, and 
without which there can be no friend- 
ship ! I do highly, very highly es- 
teem you indeed, Clarinda, — you merit 
it all! Perhaps, too, I scorn dissimu- 
Ifttioftl J P9ul4 fpadly love you; 



judge then, what a maddening stin^ 
your reproach would be. "Oh! 1 
have sins to Heaven, but none to you!'* 
— With what pleasure would I meet 
you to-day, but I cannot walk to meet 
tiie liy. I hope to be able to see you 
on foot about the middle of next week. 
I am interrupted — perhaps you are 
not sorry for it, you will tell me — but 
I won't anticipate blame. O Clarinda I 
did you know how dear to me is your 
look of kindness, your smile of appro- 
bation ! you would not, either in prose 
or verse, risk a censorious remark. 

" Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow. 
That tends to make one worthy man my foe!'' 

Sylvander. 



No. XL 



Tuesday Mominff. 

I CANNOT go out to-day, my dearest 
Clarinda, without sending you half a 
line, by way of a sin-offering; but, be- 
lieve me, 'twas the sin of ignorance. 
Could you think that I intended to 
hurt you by anything I said yester- 
night ? Nature has been too kind to 
you for your happiness, your delicacy, 
your sensibility. -r-0 why should such 
glorious qualifications be the fruitful 
source of woe ! You have "murder- 
ed sleep " to me last night. I went to 
bed, impressed with an idea that you 
were unhappy: and every start I closed 
my eyes, busy Fancy painted you in 
such scenes of romantic misery that I 
would almost be persuaded you were 
not well this morning. 

" If I unwittingly have offended, 
linpute it not." 

" But while we live. 
But one short hour, perhaps, between us two^ 
Let there be peace." 

If Mary is not gone by the time this 
reaches you, give her my best compli- 
ments. She is a charming girl, and 
highly worthy of the noblest love. 

I send you a poem to read till I call 
on you this night, which will be about 
nine, I wish I could procure some 
potent spell, some fairy charm that 
would protect from injury, or restore 
tQ rest that bosom-chord, " trembling- 



LETTERS TO CLAHINDA. 



571 



ly alive all o'er," on wliich hangs your 
peace of mind. I thought, vainly, I 
fear, thought that the devotion of love 
— love, strong as even you can feel — 
love guarded, invulnerably guarded, 
by all the purity of virtue, and all the 
pride of honour; I thought such a love 
would make you happy — will I be 
mistaken ! I can no more for hui ry 



No. XII. 

Sunday Morning. 

I HAVE just been before the throne 
of my God, Clarinda; according to my 
association of ideas, my sentiments of 
love and friendship, I next devote my- 
self to you. Yesterday night I was 
happy — happiness " that the world 
cannot give." I kindle at the recol- 
lection; but it is a flame where inno- 
cence looks smiling on, and honour 
stands by a sacred guard. — Your 
heart, your fondest wishes, your dear- 
est thoughts, these are yours to be- 
stow, your person is unapproachable 
by the laws of your country; and he 
loves not as I do who would make you 
miserable. 

You are an angel, Clarinda; you are 
surely no mortal that " the earth 
owns." — To kiss your hand, to live on 
your smile, is to me far more exquisite 
bliss than the dearest favours that the 
fairest of the sex, yourself excepted, 
can bestow. 

Sunday Evening. 

You are the constant companion 
of my thoughts. How wretched is the 
condition of one who is haunted with 
conscious guilt, and trembling under 
the idea of dreaded vengeance ! and 
what a placid calm, what a charming 
secret enjoyment it gives, to bosom the 
kind feelings of friendship, and the 
fond throes of love ! Out upon the 
tempest of anger, the acrimonious gall 
of fretful impatience, the sullen frost 
of lowering resentment, or the corrod- 
ing poison of withered envy ! They 
eat up the immortal part of man ! If 
they spent their fury only on the 
unfortunate objects of theni, it would 



be something in their favour; but 
these miserable passions, like traitor 
Iscariot, betray their lord and master. 

Thou Almighty Author of peace, 
and goodness, and love; do thou give 
me the social heart that kindly tastes 
of every man's cup ! — Is it a draught 
of joy ? — warm and open my heart to 
share it with cordial unenvying rejoic- 
ing ! Is it the bitter potion of sorrow ? 
— melt my heart with sincerely sympa- 
thetic woe ! Above all, do thou give 
me the manly mind, that resolutely 
exemplifies in life and manners those 
sentiments which I would wish to be 
thought to possess ! The friend of my 
soul — there, may I never deviate from 
the firmest fidelity and most active 
kindness ! Clarinda, the dear object 
of my fondest love; there, may the 
most sacred inviolate honour, the most 
faithful kindling constancy, ever watch 
and animate my every thought and 
imagination ! 

Did you ever meet with the follow- 
ing lines spoken of Religion, your 
darling topic ? 

'"'■'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morn- 
ing bright ! 

' Tis this that gilds the horrors of our night ; 

"When wealth forsakes us, and when friends 
are few, [pursue ; 

When friends are faithless, or when foes 

'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills th« 
smart, 

Disarms affliction, or repels its dart ; 

Within the breast bids purest rapture rise, 

Bids smiling Conscience spread her cloudless 
skies. 

I met with these verses very early 
in life, and was so delighted with them 
that I have them by me, copied at 
school. 

Good night and sound rest, my 
dearest Clarinda ! 

Sylvander. 



No. XIII. 



I WAS on the way, my Love, to meet 
you, (I never do things by halves) 

when I got your card. M goes out 

of town to-morrow morning to see a 
brother of his who is newly arrived 

from . I am determined that h« 

and I shall call on you together; so, 



StJHNS' WORKS. 



look you, lest I sliould never see 
to-morrow, we will call on vou to-night; 

and you may put off tea till about 

seven; at wliicli time in the Galloway 
phrase, "an the beast be to the fore, 
an the branks bide hale," expect 
the humblest of your humble servants, 
and his dearest friend. We propose 
staying only half an hour, ' ' for aught 
Ave ken." I could suffer the lash of 
misery eleven months in the year, 
Avere the twelfth to be composed of 
hours like yesternight. You are the 
soul of my enjoyment: all else is of 
the stuff of stocks or stones. 

Sylvander. 



No. XIV. 

Thursday Morning. 
* Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain." 

I HAVE been tasking my reason, 
Clarinda, why a woman, who for na- 
tive genius, poignant wit, strength of 
mind, generous sincerity of soul, and 
the sweetest female tenderness, is 
without a peer, and whose personal 
charms have few, very, very few par- 
allels among her sex; why, or how 
she should fall to the blessed lot of a 
poor hairum scairum poet, whom For- 
tune had kept for her particular use, 
to wreak her temper on whenever she 
was in ill humour. One time I con- 
jectured that, as Fortune is the most 
capricious jade ever known, she may 
have taken, not a fit of remorse, but a 
paroxysm of whim, to raise the poor 
devil out of the mire, where he had so 
often and so conveniently served her 
as a stepping stone, and given him 
the most glorious boon she ever had in 
her gift, merely for the maggot's sake, 
to see how his fool head and his 
fool heart will bear it. At other 
times I was vain enough to think 
that Nature, who has a great deal 
to say with Fortune, had given the 
coquettish goddess some such hint 
as, " Here is a paragon of female excel 
lence, whose equal, in all my former 
compositions, I never was lucky 
enough to hit on, and despair of ever 
doing so again; you have cast her 



rather in the shades of life; there Is a 
certain poet of my making; among 
your frolics it would not be amiss to at- 
tach him to this masterpiece • of my 
hand, to give her that immortality 
among mankind which no woman of 
any age ever more deserved, and which 
few rhymesters of this age are better 
able to confer. " 

Evening, 9 o'clock. 

I AM here, absolutely unfit to finish 
my letter — pretty hearty after a bowl, 
which has been constantly plied since 
dinner till this moment. I have been 
with Mr. Schetki, the musician, and 
he has set it* finely. 1 have no dis- 
tinct ideas of anything, but that I have 
drunk your health twice to-night, and 
that you are all my soul holds dear ia 
this world. Sylvander. 



No. XV. 



Saturday Morning. 

There is no time, my Clarinda, 
when the conscious thrilling chords of 
Love and Friendship give such delight 
as in the pensive hours of what our 
favourite, Thomson, calls " Philoso 
pliic Melancholy." The sportive in 
sects who bask in the sunshine of pros- 
perity: or the worms that luxuriant 
craAvl amid their ample w^ealth of 
earth — they need no Clarinda: they 
would despise Svlvander — if they 
durst. The family of Misfortune, a 
numerous group of brothers and sis- 
ters ! they need a resting-place to their 
souls: unnoticed, often condemned by 
the world ; in some degree, perhaps, 
condemned by themselves, they feel 
the full enjoyment of ardent love, del- 
icate tender endearments, mutual es- 
teem, and mutual reliance. 

In tills light I have often admired re- 
ligion. In proportion as we are wrung 
with grief, or distracted with anxiety, 
the ideas of a compassionate Deity, an 
Almighty Protector, are doubly dear. 

" ' Tis this, my Friend, that streaks our mom« 

ing bright ; 
' Tzs this that gilds the horrors of our night." 
« 

* " Clarinda, mistress of my soul," p. xzs* 



LETTERS TO CLAHINDA. 



673 



I have been this morning taking a 
peep through, as Young finely says, 
"the dark postern of time long 
elaps'd;" and, you will easily guess, 
'twas a rueful prospect. What a tis- 
sue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and 
folly ! My life reminded me of a 
ruined temple; what strength, what 
proportion in some parts ! what un- 
sightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in 
others ! I kneeled down before the 
Father of mercies, and said, " FatheT, 
I have sinned against heaven, and in 
thy sight, and am no more worthy to 

be called thy son !" 1 rose, eased 

and strengthened. I despise the super- 
stition of a fanatic, but 1 love the relig- 
ion of a man. " The future," said I 
to myself, "is still before me;" there 
let me 

" On reason build resolve, 
That column of true majesty in man ! " 

** I have difficulties many to encoun- 
ter," said 1; "but they are not abso- 
lutely insuperable: and where is firm- 
ness of mind shown but in exertion ? 
mere declamation is bombastic rant." 
Besides, wherever I am, or in what- 
ever situaton I may be — 

" 'Tis nought to me : 
Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
In the void v^raste as in the city full ; [joy ! ' 
And where He vital breathes, there must be 

Saturday Night— half after Ten. 

What luxury of bliss I was enjoy- 
ing this time yesternight ! My ever- 
dearest Clarinda, yon have stolen away 
my soul: but you have refined, you 
have exalted it: you have given it a 
stronger sense of virtue, and a stronger 
relish for piety. — Clarinda, first of your 
sex, if ever I am the veriest wretch on 
earth to forget you; if ever your love- 
ly image is effaced from my soul, 

" May I be lost, no eye to weep my end ; 
And find no earth that's base enough to bury 
me !" 

What trifling silliness is the childish 
fondness of the every- day children of 
the world ! 'tis the unmeaning toying 
of the younglings of the fields and 
forests : but where Sentiment and 
Fancy unite their sweets ; where Taste 



and Delicacy refine ; where Wit adds 
the flavour, and Goodness gives 
strength and spirit to all, what a de- 
licious draught is the hour of tejider 
endearment — Beauty and Grace, in the 
arms of Truth and Honour, in all the 
luxury of mutual love. 

Clarinda have you ever seen the pic- 
ture realised 1 Not in all its very 
richest colouring. 

Last night, Clarinda, but for one 
slight shade, was the glorious pic- 
ture — 

Innocence 
Look'd gaily smiling on ; while rosy Pleasure 
Hid young Desire amid her fiowery wreath, 
And pour'd her cup luxuriant; mantling high, 
The sparkling heavenly vintage— love and 
bliss ! 

Clarinda, when a poet and poetess of 
Nature's making, two of Nature's no- 
blest productions ! when they drink to- 
gether of the same cup of love and bliss 
— attempt not, ye coarser stuff of hu- 
man nature, profanely to measure en- 
joyment ye never can know ! — Good 
night, my dear Clarinda ! 

Sylvandek. 



No. XVI. 

My ever-deakest Clarinda, — I 
make a numerous dinner party wait 
me while I read yours, and write this. 
Do not require that 1 should cease to 
love you, to adore you in my soul — 
'tis to me impossible — your peace and 
happiness are to me dearer than my 
soul — name the terms on which you 
wish to see me, to correspond with me, 
and you have them — I must love, pine, 
mourn, and adore in secret — this you 
must not deny me — ^.vou will ever be 
to me — 

" Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes. 
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my 
heart ! " 

I have not patience to read the puri- 
tanic scrawl. — Vile sophistry ! — Ye 
heavens ! thou God of nature ! thou 
Redeemer of mankind ! ye look down 
with approving eyes on a passion in- 
spired by the purest flame, and guard- 
ed by truth, delicacy, and honour; but 
the half-inch soul of an unfeeling. 



674 



SmiXS' \VORKS. 



cold-blooded, pitiful Presbyterian 
bigot cannot forgive anything above 
bis dungeon bosom, and foggy head. 

Farewell; I'll be with you to-mor- 
row evening — and be at rest in your 
mind — I will be yours in the way you 
think most to your happiness ! I dare 
not proceed — I love, and will love you, 
and will with joyous confidence ap- 
proach the throne of the Almighty 
Judge of men, with your dear idea, 
and will despise the scum of senti- 
ment, and the mist of sophistry. 

Sylvander. 



No. XVII. 

Tuesday Evening. 

That you have faults, my Clarinda, 
I never doubted; but I knew not where 
they existed, and Saturday night 
made me more in the dark than ever. 
O Clarinda ! why will you wound my 
soul, by hinting that last night must 
have lessened my opinion of you ? 
True, I was ' ' behind the scenes vv^ith 
you;" but what did I see? A bosom 
glowing with honour and benevolence; 
a mind ennobled by genius, informed 
and refined by education and reflec- 
tion, and exalted by native religion, 
genuine as in the climes of heaven; a 
heart formed for all the glorious melt- 
ings of friendship, love, and pity. 
These I saw. — I saw the noblest im- 
mortal soul creation ever showed me. 

I looked long, ray dear Clarinda, for 
your letter; and am vexed that you are 
complaining. I have not caught you 
so far wrong as in your idea, that the 
commerce you have with one friend 
hurts you, if you cannot tell every tit- 
tle of it to another. Why have so in- 
jurious a suspicion of a good God, 
Clarinda, as to think that Friendship 
and Love, on the sacred inviolate prin- 
ciples of Truth, Honour, and Religion, 
can be anything else than an object 
of His divine approbation ? 

I have mentioned, in some of my 
former scrawls, Saturday evening 
next. Do allow me to Avait on you 
that evening. Oh, my angel ! how 
gOOA must we part ! and when can we 



meet again ! I look forward on the 
horrid interval with tearful eyesl 
What have 1 lost by not knowing you 
sooner ! I fear, I fear my acquaintance 
with you is too short to make that 
lasting impression on your heart I 
could wish. 

Sylvander. 



No. XVIII. 

" I AM distressed for thee, my 
brother Jonathan. " I have suffered, 
Clarinda, from your letter. My soul 
was in arms at the sad perusal: I 
dreaded that I had acted wrong. If 1 
have robbed you of a friend, God for- 
give me ! But, Clarinda, be comforted: 
let us raise the tone of our feelings a 
little higher and bolder. A fellow- 
creature who leaves us, who spurns us 
without just cause, though once our 
bosom friend — up with a little honest 
pride — let him go ! How shall I com- 
fort you, who am the cause of the in- 
jury ? Can 1 wish that I had never 
seen you? that we had never met? 
No ! I never will. But have I thrown 
you friendless ? — there is almost dis- 
traction in that thought. 

Father of mercies ! against Thee 
often have I sinned; through thy grace 
I will endeavour to do so no more ! 
She who. Thou knowest, is dearer to 
me than myself, pour Thou the balm 
of peace into her past wounds, and 
hedge her about with Thy peculiar 
care, all her future days and nights ! 
Strengthen her tender noble mind, 
firmly to suffer, and magnanimously to 
bear ! Make me worthy of that friend- 
ship she honours me with. May my 
attachment to her be pure as devotion, 
and lasting as immortal life ! O Al- 
mighty Goodness, hear me ! Be to her 
at all times, particularly in the hour 
of distress or trial, a Friend, and Com^ 
forter, a Guide and Guard. 

" How are Thy servants blest, O Lord, 

How sure is their defence ? 
Eternal Wisdom is their guide, 

Their help. Omnipotence l" 

Forgive me, Clarinda, the injury I 
have done you I To-night 1 shall bo 



LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 



575 



with you: as indeed I shall be ill at 
ease till I see you. 

Stlvander. 



No. XIX. 



Two o'clock. 



I JUST now received your first letter 
of yesterday, by the careless negli- 
gence of the penny post, Clarinda, 
matters are grown very serious with 
us; then seriously hear me, and hear 
me, Heaven — I meet you, my dear 

. . . . by far the first of woman- 
kind, at least to me; I esteemed, I 
loved you at first sight; the longer I 
am acquainted with you, the more in- 
nate amiableness and worth I discover 
in you. — You have suffered a loss, I 
confess, for my sake: but if the firm- 
est, steadiest, warmest friendship; if 
every endeavour to be worthy of your 
friendship; if a love, strong as the ties 
of nature, and lioly as the duties of 
religion — if all these can make any- 
thing like a compensation for the evil 
I have occasioned you, if they be worth 
your acceptance, or can in the least 
add to your enjoyments — so help Syl- 
vander, ye Powers above, in his hour 
of need, as he freely gives these all to 
Clarinda ! 

I esteem you, I love you as a friend; 
I admire you, I love you as a woman, 
beyond any one in all the circle of 
creation; I know I shall continue to 
esteem you, to love you, to pray for 
you, nay, to pray for myself for your 
sake. 

Expect me at eight; and believe me 
to be ever, my dearest madam, yours 
most entirely, 

Sylvander. 



No. XX. 



When matters, my love, are des- 
perate, we must put on a desperate 
face — 

'' On reason build resolve, 
That column of true majesty in man." 

Or, as the same author finely says in 
imother plaoo— 



\ " Let thy soul spring up, 
And lay strong hold for help on Him that 
made thee." 

I am yours, Clarinda, for life. Never 
be discouraged at all this. Look for- 
ward; in a few weeks I shall be some- 
where or other out of the possibility of 
seeing you: till then, 1 shall write you 
often, but visit you seldom. Your 
fame, your welfare, your happiness, j 
are dearer to me than any gratification I 
whatever. Be comforted, my love ! 
the present moment is the worst: the 
lenient hand of Time is daily and 
hourly either lightening the burden, 
or making us insensible to the weight. 
None of these friends, I mean Mr. 

and the other gentlemen, can 

hurt your worldly support, and for 
their friendship, in a little time you 
will learn to be easy, and, by and by, 
to be happy without it. A decent 
means of livelihood in the world, an 
approving God, a peaceful conscience, 
and one firm trusty friend — can any- 
body that litis these be said to be un- 
happy ? These are yours. 

To-morrow evening I shall be with 
you about eight; probably for the last 
time till I return to Edinburgh. In 
the meantime, should any of these 
two unlucky fritnds question you re- 
specting me, whether 1 am the man, I 
do not think they are entitled to any 
information. As to their jealousy and 
spying, I despise them. — Adieu, my 
dearest madam ! 

Sylvander. 



No. XXI. 

Glasgow, Monday Evening, 9 o'clock. 

The attraction of love, I find, is in 
an inverse proportion to the attraction 
of the Newtonian philosophy. In the 
system of Sir Isaac, the nearer objects 
are to one another the stronger is the 
attractive force; in my system, every 
mile-stone that marlced niy progress 
from Clarinda awakened a keener pan^ 
of attachment to her. 

How do you feel, my love ? Is your 
heart ill at ease? I fear it. — God for-l 
bid that these persecutors slioul4 
harass that peage wUicU i^ more prw 



)76 



BURNS' WORKS. 



cious to me than my own. Be assured 
I sliall ever think of you, muse on 
you, and, in my moments of devotion, 
pray for you. The hour that you are 
not in all my thoughts — " be that hour 
darkness ! let the shadows of death 
cover it ! let it not be numbered in the 
hours of the day !" 

" When I forget the darling theme, 
ht my tongue mute ! my fancy paint no niore! 
A-id, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat 1 " 

I have just met with my old friend, 
the ship captain;* guess my pleasure. 
— To meet you could alone have given 
me more. My brother William, too, 
the young saddler, has come to Glas- 
gow to meet me; and here are we 
three spending the evening. 

I arrived here too late to write by 
post; but I'll wrap half a dozen sheets 
of blank paper together, and send it 
by the fly, under the name of a parcel. 
You shall hear from me next post 
town. I would write you a long let- 
ter, but for the present circumstances 
of my friend. 

Adieu, my Clarinda ! I am just go- 
ing to propose your health by way of 
grace-drink. 

Sylvander. 



No. XXII. 

Cumnock, March 2, 1788. 

I HOPE, and am certain, that my 
generous Clarinda will not think my 
silence, for now a long week, has been 
in any degree owing to my forgetful - 
ness. I have been tossed about through 
the country ever since I wrote you; 
and am here, returning from Dum- 
friesshire, at an inn, the post-office of 
the place, with just so long time as 
my horse eats his corn, to write you. 
I have been hurried with business and 
dissipation almost equal to the insidi- 
ous decree of the Persian monarch's 
mandate, when he forbade asking pe- 
tition of God or man for forty days. 
Had the venerable prophet been as 
throng as I, he had not broken the 
decree, at least not thrice a day. 

♦ His e^rly friend, Richard Browo, of Irvine. 



I am thinking my farming scheme 
will yet hold. A worthy intelligent 
farmer, my father's friend and my 
own, has been with me on the spot: he 
thinks the bargain practicable. I am 
myself, on a more serious review of 
the lands, much better pleased with 
them. I won't mention this in writing 

to anybody but you and . Don't 

accuse me of being fickle: I have the 
two plans of life before me, and I 
wish to adopt the one most likely to 
procure me independence. I shall be 
in Edinburgh next week. 1 long to 
see you: your image is omnipresent 
to me; nay, I am convinced I would 
soon idolatrise it most seriously; so 
much do absence and memory improve 
the medium through which one sees 
the much-loved object. To-night, at 
the sacred hour of eight, I expect to 
meet you — at the Throne of Grace, I 
hope, as I go home to-night, to find a 
letter from you at the post-office in 
Mauchline. I have just once seen that 
dear hand since I left Edinburgh — a 
letter which indeed much affected me. 
Tell me, first of woman-kind ! will my 
warmest attachment, my sincerest 
friendship, my correspondence, will 
they be any compensation for the sac- 
rifices you make for my sake ! If they 
will, they are yours. If I settle on the 
farm I propose, I am just a day and a 
half's ride from Edinburgh, We will 
meet — don't you say, "perhaps too 
often !" 

Farewell, my fair, my charming 
poetess ! May all good things ever 
attend you ! I am ever, my dearest 
madam, yours, 

Sylvander. i 

No. XXIII. 

MossGiEL, March 7, 1788. 
Clarinda, I have been so stung 
with your reproach for unkindness, a 
sin so unlike me, a sin I detest more 
than a breach of the whole Decalogue, 
fifth, sixth, seventh, and ninth articles 
excepted, that I believe I shall not 
rest in my grave about it, if I die be- 
fore I see you. You have often allow- 
ed me the head to judge, and the 



LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 



5f7 



heart to feel, the influence of female 
excellence. Was it not blasphemy, 
then, against your own charms, and 
against my feelings, to suppose that a 
short fortnight could abate my pas- 
sion ? You, my love, may have your 
cares and anxieties to disturb you, but 
they are the usual recurrences of life; 
your future views are fixed, and your 
mind in a settled routine. Could not 
you, my ever dearest madam, make a 
little allowance for a man, after long 
absence, paying a short visit to a 
country full of friends, relations, and 
early intimates? Cannot you guess, 
my Clarinda, what thoughts, what 
cares, what anxious forebodings, 
hopes, and fears, must crowd the 
breast of the man of keen sensibility, 
when no less is on the tapis than his 
aim, his employment, his very exist- 
ence, through future life ? 

Now that, not my apology, but my 
defence, is made, I feel my soul re- 
spire more easily. I know you will 
go along with me in my justification 
— would to Heaven you could in my 
adoption too ! I mean an adoption be- 
neath the stars — an adoption where I 
might revel in the immediate beams 
of 

"She, the bright sun of all her sex." 

I would not have you, my dear ma- 
dam, so much hurt at Miss 's cold- 
ness. 'Tis placing yourself below her, 
an honour she by no means deserves. 
We ought, when we wish to be econ- 
omists in happiness — we ought, in the 
first place, to fix the standard of our 
\ own character; and when, on full ex- 
amination, we know where we stand, 
and how much ground we occupy, let 
us contend for it as property: and those 
who seem to doubt, or deny us what is 
justly ours, let us either pity their 
prejudices, or despise their judg- 
ment. I know, my dear, you will say 
this is self-conceit; but I c^U it self- 
knowledge. The one is the overween- 
ing opinion of a fool, who fancies him- 
self to be what he wishes himself to 
be thouglit; the other is the honest 
justice that a man of sense, who has 
thoroughly examined the subject, owes 
(Q himself. Without this standard* 



this column in our own mind, we are 
perpetually at the mercy of the petu- 
lance, the mistakes, the prejudices, 
nay, the very weakness and wicked- 
ness of our fellow-creatures. 

I urge this, my dear, both to confirm 
myself in the doctrine, which, I assure 
you, I sometimes need; and because I 
know that this causes you often much 

disquiet. — To return to Miss : she 

is most certainly a worthy soul, and 
equalled by very, very few, in good- 
ness of heart. But can she boast more 
goodn,ess of heart than Clarinda ? Not 
even prejudice will dare to say so, 
For penetration and discernment, Clar- 
inda sees far beyond her: to wit. Miss 

dare make no pretence; to Clar- 

inda's wit, scarcely any of her sex dare 
make pretence. Personal charms, it 
would be ridiculous to run the par- 
allel. And for conduct in life. Miss 

was never called out, either much 

to do or to suffer; Clarinda has been 
both; and has performed her part 

where Miss would have sunk at 

the bare idea. 

Away, then, with these disquie- 
tudes ! Let us pray with the honest 
weaver of Kilbarchan — * ' Lord, send 
us a guid conceit o' ourself !" Or, lu 
the words of the auld sang, 

'Who does me disdain, I can scorn them 
And I'll never mind any such foes." [again. 

There is an error in the commerce 
of intimacy 



way of exchange have 
not an equivalent to give us; and, 
what is still worse, have no idea of the 
value of our goods. Happy is our lot,, 
indeed, when we meet with an honest! 
merchant, who is qualified to deal 
with us on our own terms; but that is 
a rarity. With almost everybody we 
must pocket our pearls, less or more, 
and learn, in the old Scotch phrase— 
"To gie sic like as we get." For this 
reason one should try to erect a kind 
of bank or storehouse in one's own 
mind; or, as the Psalu^ist says, "Wo 
should commune with our own hearts^ 
and be still." This is exactly . , 



578 



TURNS' WORKS. 



No. xxrv. 

I OWN myself guilty, Clarinda; I 
should have written you last week; 
but when you recollect, my dearest 
madam, that yours of this night's post 
is only the third I have got from you, 
and that this is the fifth or sixth I 
have sent to you, you will not reproach 
me, with a good grace, for unkindness. 
I have always some kind of idea, not 
to sit down to write a letter, except I 
have time and possession of my facul- 
ties so as to do some justice to my letter; 
which at present is rarely my situation. 
For instance, yesterday I dined at a 
friend's at some distance; the savage 
hospitality of this country spent me 
the most part of the night over the 
nauseous potion in the bowl : — this day 
— sick — ^headache — low spirits — miser- 
able — fasting, except for a draught of 
water or small beer: now eight o'clock 
at night — only able to crawl ten min- 
utes' walk into Mauchline to wait the 
post, in the pleasurable hope of hear- 
ing from the mistress of my soul. 

But, truce with all this ! When I 
sit down to write to you, all is har- 
mony and peace. A hundred times a 
day do I iBgure you, before your taper, 
your book, or work, laid aside, as I 

fet within the room. How happy have 
been ! and how little of that scant- 
ling portion of time, called the life of 
man, is sacred to happiness ! I could 
moralize to-night like a death's head. 

" Oh, what is life, that thougfhtless wish of allt 
A drop of honey in a draught of gall." 

Nothing astonishes me more, when 
a little sickness clogs the wheels of 
life, than the thoughtless career we 
run in the hour of health. "None 
saith, where is God, my maker, that 
giveth songs in the night; who teach- 
eth us more knowledge than the beasts 
of the field, and more understanding 
than the fowls of the air." 

Give me, my Maker, to remember 
thee t Give me to act up to the dig- 
nity of my nature ! Give me to feel 
"another's woe;" and continue with 
me that dear-loved friend that feels 
With mine ) 



The dignified and dignifying con- 
sciousness of an honest man, and the 
well-grounded trust in approving 
Heaven, are two most substantia 
sources of happiness. 



Stlvandeb. 



No. XXV.* 



X793- 



Before you ask me why I have not 
written you, first let me be informed 
of you how I shall write you ? "In 
friendship," you say; and I have many 
a time taken up my pen to try an 
epistle of friendship to you, but it will 
not do: 'tis like Jove grasping a pop- 
gun, after hav" \g wielded his thunder. 
When I take up the pen recollection 
ruins me. Ah ! my ever dearest Cla- 
rinda ! Clarinf^T ! — what a host of 
memory's tenderest offspring crowd on 
my fancy at that sound ! But I must 
not indulge that subject — ^you hava 
forbid it. 

I am extremely happy to learn that 
your precious health is re-established, 
and that you are once more fit to enjoy 
that satisfaction in existence, which 
health alone can give us. My old 
friend has indeed been kind to you. 
Tell him, that I envy him the power 
of serving you. I had a letter from 
him a while ago, but it was so diy, so 
distant, so like a card to one oi his 
clients, that I could scarcely bear to 
read it, and have not yet answered it. 
He is a good honest fellow; and can 
write a friendly letter, which would 
do equal honour to his head and his 
heart; as a whole sheaf of his letters I 
have by me will witness: and though 
Fame does not blow her trumpet at my 
approach now, as she did then, when 
he first honoured me with his friend- 
ship, yet I am as proud as ever; and 
when I ato laid in my grave, I wish to 
be stretched at my full length, that 1 
may occupy every inch of ground 
which I have a right to. 

You would laugh were you to see 



* This letter was written after the poct'% 

marriage _ 



COMMONPLACE BOOK. 



r9 



me where I am just now ! — would to 
heaven you were here to laugh with 
me ! though I am afraid that crying 
would be our JBrst employment. Here 
am I set, a solitary hermit, in the sol- 
itary room of a solitary inn, with a 
solitary bottle of wine by me— as grave 
and as stupid as an owl — but, like that 
owl, still faithful to my old song. In 
. confirmation of which, my dear Mrs. 
Mack, here is your good health ! may 
the hand-waled benisons o' Heaven 
bless your bonnie face; and the wretch 
wha skellies at your weelfare, may the 
auld tinkler diel get him to clout his 
rotten heart ! Amen. 

You must know, my dearest madam, 
that these now many years, wherever 
I am, in whatever company, when 
a married lady is called on as a toast, I 
constantly give you; but as your name 
has never passed my lips even to my 
most intimate friend, I give you by 
the name of Mrs. Mack. This is so 
well known among my acquaintances 
that when my married lady is called 



for, the toast-master will say — "Oh, 
we need not ask him who it is — here's 
Mrs. Mack !" 1 have also, among my 
convivial friends, set on foot a round 
of toasts, which I call a round of Ar- 
cadian Shepherdesses; that is a round 
of favourite ladies, under female 
names celebrated in ancient song; and 
then you are my Clarinda. So, my 
lovely Clarinda, I devote this glass of 
wine to a most ardent wish for your 
happiness ! 

In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer, 
Pftint out a cens'ring world, and bid me fear ; 
Above that world on wings of love I rise, 
I know its worst, and can that worst despise. 
'* Wrong'd, injured, shunn'd, unpitied, unre- 

drest. 
The mock'd quotation of the scorner's jest," 
Let Prudence' direst bodements on me fall, 
Clarinda, rich reward ! o'erpays them all! 

I have been rhyming a little of late, 
but I do not know if they are worth 
postage. — Tell me . . . 

Sylvander, 



COMMONPLACE BOOK 

BEGUN IN APRIL 1783. 



TO ROBERT RIDDEL, Esq. 

My dear Siu, — In rummaging over 
Bome old papers, I lighted on a MS. of 
my early years, in which I had deter 
mined to write myself out; as I was 
placed by fortune among a class of 
men to whom my ideas would have 
been nonsense. I had meant that the 
book should have lain by me, in the 
fond hope that some time or other, 
even after I was no more, my thoughts 
would fall into the hands of somebody 
capable of appreciating their value. 
It sets off thus: — 

*' Observations, Hints, Songs, 



Scraps op Poetry, &c., by Robert 
BuRNESS; — a man who had little art in 
making money, and still less in keep- 
ing it; but was, however, a man of 
some sense, a great deal of honesty, 
and unbounded good- will to every crea- 
ture, rational and irrational. — As he 
was but little indebted to scholastic 
education, and bred at a plough-tail, 
his performances must be strongly 
tinctured with his unpolished rustic 
way of life; but as I believe they are 
really his own, it may be some enter- 
tainment to a curious observer of hu- 
man nature to see how a ploughman 
thinks and feels under the pressure ot 



680 



BURXS' WORKS. 



love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with 
the like cares and passions, which, 
however diversified by the modes and 
tnanners of life, operate pretty much 
alike, I believe, on all the species. " 

" There are numbers in the world who do 
not want sense to make a figure, so much 
as an opinion of their own ablHties, to put 
them upon recording their observations, and 
allowing them the same importance which 
they do to those which appear in print."— 
Shenstone. 

"Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to 

trace 

The forms our pencil, or our pen, design'd ! 

Such was our youthful air, and shape, and 

face. 

Such the soft image of our youthful mind-" 

Ibid. 



April 1783. 
Notwithstanding all that has been 
said against love, respecting the folly 
and weakness it leads a young inex- 
perienced mind into; still I think it 
in a great measure deserves the high- 
est encomiums that have been passed 
upon it. If anything on earth de- 
serves the name of rapture or trans- 
port, it is the feelings of green eight- 
een in the company of the mistress of 
his heart, when she repays him with 
an equal return of afEection. 



August. 
There is certainly some connexion 
between love, and music, and poetry; 
and, therefore, I have always thought 
it a fine touch of nature, that passage 
in a modern love-composition: 

" As towards her cot he jogg'd along. 
Her name was frequent in his song." 

For my own part, I never had the 
least thought or inclination of turning 
poet till I got once heartily in love, 
and then rhyme and song were, in a 
manner, the spontaneous language of 
my heart. The following composition 
was the first of my performances, and 
done at an early period of life, when 
my heart glowed with honest warm 
simplicity; unacquainted and uncor- 
rupted with the ways of a wicked 
world. The performance is, indeed. 



very puerile and silly; but I am al- 
ways pleased with it, as it recalls to 
my mind those happy days when my 
heart was yet honest, and my tongue 
was sincere. The subject of it was a 
young girl who really deserved all the 
praises 1 have bestowed on her. I not 
only had this opinion of her then — but 
I actually think so still, now that the 
spell is long since broken, and the en- 
chantment at an end. 

" Oh, once I loved a bonnie lass," &c.* 



REMORSE. 

September. 

I entirely agree with that judicious 
philosopher, Mr, .Smith, in his excel- 
lent Theory of Moral Sentiments, that 
remorse is the most painful sentiment 
that can embitter the human bosom. 
Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may 
bear up tolerably well under those 
calamities, in the procurement of 
which we ourselves have had no hand; 
but when our own follies or crimes 
have made us miserable and wretched, 
to bear up with manly firmness, and at 
the same time to have a proper and 
penitential sense of our misconduct, is 
a glorious effort of self-command. 



March 1784. 

I have often observed, in the course 
of my experience of human life, that 
every man, even the worst, has some- 
thing good about him: — ^though very 
often nothing else than a happy tem- 
perament of constitution inclining him 
to this or that virtue. For this reason, 
no man can say in what degree any 
other person, besides himself, can be, 
with strict justice, called wicked. Let 
any of the strictest character for regu- 
larity of conduct among us examine 
impartially how many vices he has 
never been guilty of, not from any 
care or vigilance, but for want of op- 
portunity, or some accidental circum- 
stance intervening; how many of the 
weaknesses of mankind he has es- 



* See " My Handsome Nell*,'?. 189, 



COMMONPLACE BOOK. 



681 



caped because he was out of the line 
of such temptation: and what often, if 
not always, weighs more than all the 
rest, how much he is indebted to the 
world's good opinion, because the 
world does not know all ; I say, any 
men who can thus think will scan the 
failings, nay, the faults and crimes, 
of mankind around him with a broth- 
er's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaint- 
ance of that part of mankind common- 
ly known by the ordinary phrase of 
blackguards, sometimes farther than 
was consistent with the safety of my 
character; those who, by thoughtless 
prodigality or headstrong passions, 
have been driven to ruin. Though 
disgraced by follies, nay, sometimes 
stained with guilt, I have yet found 
among them, in not a few instances, 
some of the noblest virtues, magna- 
nimity, generosity, disinterested friend- 
ship, and even modesty. 

Shenstone finely observes, that love- 
verses, written without any real pas- 
sion, are the most nauseous of all 
conceits; and I have often thought 
that no man can be a proper 
critic of love-composition, except 
he himself, in one or more in- 
stances, have been a warm votary of 
this passion. As I have been all along 
a miserable dupe to love, and have 
been led into a thousand weaknesses 
and follies by it, for that reason I put 
the more confidence in my critical 
skill in distinguishing foppery and 
conceit from real passion and nature. 
Whether the following song will 
stand the test, I will not pretend to 
say, because it is my own ; only I can 
say it was, at the time, genuine from 
the heart. 

" Behind yon hills where Lugar flows," «&c.* 



March 1784. 
There was a certain period of my life 
that my spirit was broken by repeated 
losses and disasters, which threat- 
ened, and indeed effected, the utter 
ruin of my fortune. My body, too, 

* See " My Nannie, O," p. 190. 



was attacked by that most dreadful 
distemper, a hypochondria, or confirm- 
ed melancholy. In this wretched 
state, the recollection of which makes 
me yet shudder, I hung my harp on 
the willow trees, except in some lucid 
intervals, in one of which I composed 
the following: — 

*' O thou Great Being ! what thou art," &c.* 



April. 

The following song is a wild rhap- 
sody, miserably deficient in versifica- 
tion; but, as the sentiments are the 
genuine feelings of my heart, for that 
reason I have a particular pleasure in 
conning it over. 

"My father was a farmer upon the Carrick 
border O," &c.t 



April. 

I think the whole species of young 
men may be naturally enough divided 
into two grand classes, which I shall 
call the gra'oe and the merry; though, 
by the by, these terms do not, with 
propriety enough, express my ideas. 
The grave I shall cast into the usual 
division of those who are goaded on by 
the love of money, and those whose 
darling wish is to make a figure in the 
world. The merry are the men of 
pleasure of all denominations; the 
jovial lads, who have too much fire 
and spirit to have any settled rule of 
action; but, without much delibera- 
tion, follow the strong impulses of na- 
ture; the thoughtless, the careless, the 
indolent — in particular he who, with a 
happy sweetness of natural temper, 
and a cheerful vacancy of thought, 
steals through life — generally, indeed, 
in poverty and obscurity; but poverty 
and obscurity are only evils to him 
who can sit gravely down, and make 
a repining comparison between his 
own situation and that of others; and 
lastly, to grace the quorum, such are, 
generally, those whose heads are ca- 
pable of all the towerings of genius, 



* See "Prayer under the Pressure of Violent 
Anguish," p.- 35. t See p. 192. 



582 



BURNS' WORKS. 



and whose hearts are warmed with all 
the delicacy of feeling. 



August. 
The foregoing was to have been an 
elaborate (hssertation on the various 
species of men; but as I cannot please 
myself in the arrangement of my ideas, 
I must wait till further experience and 
nicer observation throw more light on 
the subject. — In the meantime, I shall 
set down the following fragment, 
which, as it is the genuine language 
of my heart, will enable anybody to 
determine which of the classes I be- 
long to: — 

" There's nought but care on ev'ry han'. 
In ev'ry hour that passes, O," &c.* 

As the grand end of human life is 
to cultivate an intercourse with that 
Being to whom we owe life, with 
every enjoyment that renders life de- 
lightful; and to maintain an integri- 
tive conduct towards our fellow- 
creatures; that so, by forming piety 
and virtue into habit, we may be fit 
members for that society of the pious 
and the good, which reason and rev- 
elation teach us to expect beyond the 
grave, I do not see that the turn of 
mind, and pursuits of such a one as 
the above verses describe — one who 
spends the hours and thoughts which 
the vocations of the day can spare, 
with Ossian, Shakespeare, Thomson, 
Shenstone, Sterne, &c.; or, as the 
maggot takes him, a gun, a fiddle, or 
a song to make or mend; and at all 
times some heart's-dear bonnie lass in 
view — I say I do not see that the turn 
of mind and pursuits of such a one are 
in the least more inimical to the sacred 
interests of piety and virtue than the 
even lawful bustling and straining 
after the world's riches and honours: 
and I do not see but he may gain 
heaven as well — which, by the by, is 
no mean consideration — who steals 
through the vale of life, amusing him- 
self with every little flower that for- 
tune throws in his way, as he who, 
straining straight forward, and perhaps 
spattering all about him, gains some 



♦ See ** Green grow the Rashes, O," p. 195. 



of life's little eminences, where, nfter 
all, he can only see and be seen a lit- 
tle more conspicuously than wkat, in 
the pride of his heart, he is apt to term 
the poor indolent devil hw kas left be* 
hind him. 

August. 
A prayer, when fainting fits, and 
other alarming symptoms of a pleurisy 
or some other riabgerous disorder, 
which indeed stdl threatens me, first 
put nature on tne alarm : — 

" O thou unknown, Almighty Cause 
Of all my hope and fear ! &c.* 



EGOTISMS FROM MY OWN SENSATIONS. 

May. 
I don't well know what is the reason 
of it, but somehow or other, though 
I am, when I have a mind, pretty 
generally beloved, yet I never could 
get the art of commanding respect — I 
imagine it is owing to my being de- 
ficient in what Sterne calls " that un- 
derstrapping virtue of discretion." — I 
am so apt to a lapsus Ungues that I 
sometimes think the character of a 
certain great man I have read of some- 
where is very much apropos to my- 
self — that he was a compound of great 
talents and great folly. — N. B. — To 
try if I can discover the causes of this 
wretched infirmity, and, if possible, to 
mend it. 



August. 
However I am pleased with the 
works of our Scottish poets, particular- 
ly the excellent Ramsay, and the still 
more excellent Fergusson, yet I am hurt 
to see other pluces of Scotland, their 
towns, rivers, woods, haughs, &c., im- 
mortalised in such celebrated perform- 
ances, while my dear native country, 
the ancient baileries of Carrick, Kyle, 
and Cunningham, famous both in an- 
cient and modern times for a gallant 
and warlike race of inhabitants; a 
country where civil, and particularly 
religious, liberty have ever found their 

* See " A Prayer in the Prospect of Death,** 
p. 37. 



COMMONPLACE BOOK. 



58t 



first support and their last asyluiti; a 
country, the birthplace of many fa- 
mous philosophers, soldiers, and 
statesmen, and the scene of many im- 
portant events recorded in Scottish 
history, particularly a great many of 
the actions of the glorious Wallace, 
the saviour of his country; yet we 
have never had one Scotch poet of any 
eminence, to make the fertile banks of 
Irvine, the romantic woodlands and 
sequestered scenes on Ayr, and the 
heathy mountainous source and wind- 
ing sweep of DooN, emulate Tay, 
Forth, Ettrick, Tweed, &c. This is a 
complaint I would gladly remedy, but 
alas! I am far unequal to the task, 
both in native genius and education. 
Obscure I am, and obscure I must be, 
though no young poet, nor young sol- 
dier's heart ever beat more fondly for 
fame than mine — 

" And if there is no other scene of bein^, 
Where my insatiate wish may have its fill. — 
This something at my heart that heaves for 

room 
My best, my dearest part, was made in vain." 



September. 
There is a great irregularity in the 
old Scottish songs, a redundancy of 
syllables with respect to the exact- 
ness of accent and measure that the 
English poetry requires, but which 
:^lides in, most melodiously, with the 
respective tunes to which they are set. 
For instance, the fine old song of "The 
Mill, Mill, O," to give it a plain, pro- 
saic reading, it halts prodigiously out 
of measure; on the other hand, the 
song set to the same tune in Bremner's 
collection of Scotch songs, which be- 
gins " To Fanny fair could I impart," 
&c. , it is most exact measure, and yet, 
let them both be sung before a real 
critic, one above the biases of preju- 
dice, but a thorough judge of nature, 
— how flat and spiritless will the last 
appear, how trite, and lamely method- 
ical, compared with the wild- warbling 
cadence, the heart-moving melody of 
the first ! — This is particularly the 
case with all those airs which end 
with a hypermetrical syllable. There 
is a degree of wild irregularity in 
many of the compositions and frag- 



ments which are daily sung to them 
by my compeers, the common people 
— a certain happy arrangement of olol 
Scotch syllables, and yet, very fre 
quently, nothing, not even like rhyme, 
a sameness of jingle, at the ends of the 
lines. This has made me sometimes 
imagine that, perhaps, it might be 
possible for a Scotch poet, with a nice 
judicious ear, to set compositions to 
many of our moSt favourite airs, par- 
ticularly that class of them mentioned 
above, independent of rhyme alto- 
gether. 

Tliere is a noble sublimity, a heart- 
melting tenderness, in some of our an- 
cient ballads, which show them to be 
the work of a masterly hand; and it 
has often given me many a heartache 
to reflect that such glorious old bards 
— bards who very probably owed all 
their talents to native genius, yet have 
described the exploits of heroes; the 
pangs of disappointment, and the 
meltings of love, with such fine strokes 
of nature — that their very names (oh, 
how mortifying to a bard's vanity !) 
are now " buried among the wrecks of 
things which were.** 

O ye illustrious names unknown 1 
who could feel so strongly and de- 
scribe so well: thte last, the meanest of 
the muses' train — one who, though far 
inferior to your flights, yet eyes your 
path, and with trembling wing would 
sometimes soar after you — a poor rus- 
tic bard unknown, pays this sympa- 
thetic pang to your memory ! Some 
of you tell us, with all the charms of 
verse, that you have been unfortunate 
in the world — unfortunate in love: he, 
too, has felt the loss of his little for- 
tune, the loss of friends, and worse 
than all, the loss of the woman he 
adored. Like you, all his conso- 
lation was his muse : she taught 
him in rustic measures to com- 
plain. Happy could he have done 
it with your strength of imagination 
and flow of verse! May the turf lie 
lightly on your bones ! and may you 
now enjoy that solace and rest which 
this world rarely gives to the heart 
tuned to all the feelings of poesy and 
love! 



B84 



BURNS' WORKS. 



^1, 

October 1785. 
If ever any young man, in the vesti- \ 
bule of the world, chance to throw hi 
eye over these pages, let him pay 



September. 

There is a fragment in imitation of 
an old Scotch song, well known 
among the country ingle sides. I can- 
not tell the name, neither of the song 
nor the tune, but they are in fine 
unison with one another. — By the 
way, these old Scottish airs are 
so nobly sentimental that when 
one would compose to them, to "south 
the tune," as our Scotch phrase is, 
over and over, is the readiest way to 
catch the inspiration, and raise the 
bard into that glorious enthusiasm so 
strongly characteristic of our own Scot- 
tish poetry. I shall here set down one 
verse of the piece mentioned above, 
both to mark the song and tune I 
mean, and likewise as a debt I owe to 
the author, as the repeating of that 
verse has lighted up my flame a 
thousand times : — 

*' When clouds in skies do come together 
To hide the brightness of the sun, 
There will surely be some pleasant weather 
When a' their storms are past and gone.* 



* Alluding to the misfortunes he feelingly 
aaoteats before this v«rse.— ^. 



'i 



warm attention to tlie following ob. 
servations, as I assure him they are the"; 
fruit of a poor devil's dear-bought ex- 1 
perience. — I have literally, like that! 
great poet and great gallant, and by 
consequence, that great fool, Solomon, 
"turned my eyes to behold madness/ 
and folly." Nay, I have, with all theJ^ 
ardour of a lively, fanciful, and whim- '^ 
sical imagination, accompanied with a ', 
warm, feeling, poetic heart, shaken 
hands with their intoxicating friend- 
ship. 

In the first place, let my pupil, asl 
he tenders his own peace, keep up a 
regular warm intercourse with the ^ 
Deity. R. B t 

[Here the manuscript abruptly dote*,] } 






" \^ 



'^.- c^^ 









av 






"^.. V-^' 






%. .<^ 






d-- \^ 












A' </^ 



V I 8 



<* ■ ' « 






\- '^> ^ 



o°-'> 






11 ,;j-.^ 



-■<:,. .^ 



0^ :4k:./ ^ ' 



xX^'-V 



v\ . N c * -7- 



-r, 



't'. ■' . , o ^ ,0- 



^. o. 






%.^- 






•x^- ^% 



. "^T::.3r .^ oN' 






^v . -^ -.4. - 



.1 <.^ V 






V. * 



-^^ 
^^^> 



^. 



y </ 



X^^' "' 



^^.. >^^ 



''-^ V 



•/', 

■^c^ 



i<£ " ' i»:j._ 



























* .A 



■=,," 






'^^ s*' 






,v 






A% <s. 









.c^^ 



-0- 



<. .-^^ 



' o> 






\' . 









A>' 



